


Theories of the Crimes

by GilShalos1



Series: He Does The Maximum [10]
Category: Law & Order
Genre: Complete, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Friendship, Gen, Law Enforcement, Legal Drama, Light Angst, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-11
Updated: 2008-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 24,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: A drowned man is found with four bullets in his back. Briscoe and Green investigate, but the case is complicated by a less than honest cop. McCoy has to choose between sticking to his principles or a successful prosecution.Originally published as "Should Have Known".





	1. Ten Buck Bet

**Author's Note:**

> I am not NY native or indeed an American, as my woefully inadequate knowledge of NY geography and the American legal system makes perfectly clear! I do, however, love Law and Order. Here, we get the episodes years late and often out of order, which has led to my long-standing confusion between who is in the show when and why and how old they are. My fannish imagination therefore has its own chronology, which differs from the show's canon in only three substantial ways: Lennie Briscoe didn't retire; Jack McCoy was snap-frozen in the late 90s (since that's the age he is in the reruns that are all our free-to-air channels see fit to give us); and from the beginning of series seventeen, I diverge considerably from canon.

_Robert F J Wagner Park_

_4.15 pm Friday 22 September 2006_

* * *

 

"Yeah, Simon, I bet you ten bucks you can't hit it," jeered the bigger of the two boys playing on the wharf.

"Ten bucks! You're on," Simon replied, looking around for something to throw. Nothing was handy.

"Yah, lucky for you," jeered his friend.

"Just wait, Jimmy!" Simon ran to the edge of the wharf and looked down. The tide was out – he could see a few lumps that might be rocks in the mud. "Just wait and see!"

The wharf supports were as easy to climb as the jungle-gym in the park, if a bit more splintery, and Simon clambered down them easily. The mud sucked at his shoes, and he had a sudden vision of his mother's face if he returned home with mud up to his knees. He grabbed on to the wharf again, intending to climb rather than walk to the waterline, and then realised he was touching something that wasn't wood.

"Jesus, Simon, come on! It stinks here!"

It did stink. It stank worse down here than up on the wharf, and not of weed or motor oil. It smelled sweet and disgusting at the same time. Suddenly Simon didn't care about winning the bet. "I'm coming," he called, and started to climb up. As he pulled himself up whatever he was holding on to with his right hand gave way and he fell backwards into the mud.

Up on the wharf, Jimmy heard him fall, and ran back to the edge. "Jeez, Si, you okay?"

Simon was lying on his back in the mud, sucking air.  _His mom is gonna kill us both_ , Jimmy thought.

Then Simon started screaming. Not yelling in pain, like maybe he was hurt. Screaming. Screaming like a little kid lost in a department store with a lost mommy and a scary stranger.

Jimmy freaked. Later he would tell the cops and his parents and his friends that he had thought about it and decided that getting grown-up help right away was the best thing he could do, but in his heart he knew he hadn't thought that at all. Hadn't thought anything.

Had just flat out started running, and run until he saw a couple of people walking their dog along the path near the water's edge.

"Hey! Hey! HEY! I need some help! I need some help here! Somebody, help!"


	2. Not A Social Call: One

_10th Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_5.30 pm Friday 22 September 2006_

* * *

 

"Excuse me."

Regan Markham looked up from the deposition she was scrutinising to see a tall, polished blonde leaning in her office door.

"I'm looking for Regan Markham," the blonde said.

"I'm her," Regan said, and stood up. She felt awkward and rumpled next to this sleek creature and self-consciously straightened her jacket.

"I'm Serena Southerlyn." Serena extended her hand and Regan shook it. "I wanted to thank you for your work on Jenny's case. Getting Conroy to take the maximum – saves her family a lot of heartache."

"That was Jack McCoy," Regan said. "But thank you."

"I know he seems like a one-man-band, but I used to sit in that chair right there. I know he doesn't do it all himself." Serena gestured to the visitor's chair. "May I?"

"Please," Regan said, and sat down herself.

"I'm going in to see Jack and thank him, but I have something I want to talk to you about first."

"Sure," Regan said. Her voice cracked a little. After McCoy had mentioned Southerlyn's history in the DA's office, Regan had hit Google. There was enough information about Serena Southerlyn online – three years as McCoy's second chair, came from money, now crusading lawyer for anti-discrimination causes - to thoroughly intimidate a rusting rustic rookie like Regan Markham.

"I've had some – incidents – at my home." Serena said. "My car has been vandalised. Blood – pig's blood – thrown over my door and front steps. Heavy breathing phone calls. Threatening letters. I thought – I thought it was connected to Jenny, she knew she was being followed, I didn't know she knew who it was – " Serena's words tumbled over each other faster and faster and Regan reached out and put her hand over the other woman's, gripped hard.

"It's okay," she said softly. "It's okay." She got up and closed the door and tilted the Venetians.

Serena sat for a moment with her face in her hands. "I thought it was that bastard who was fixed on Jenny," she said, muffled. "But two days ago I got another of the letters. It wasn't him."

"Have you been to the police?" Regan asked. She pulled her cardboard box out from under her desk and rootled out a bottle of water and a travel pack of tissues. "Here."

"Still unpacking?" Serena asked with a watery smile. Regan gave her A for effort, D minus for execution.

"I'm only here temporarily." Regan reached for a pad and a pencil. "Did you go to the police?"

"Every time. I even got copies of all the incident reports. But I think … I represented Fanny Monahan last year." Serena said.

"Who?"

" Fanny Monahan – she was a police officer who sued the department for discrimination. I represented her. So …"

"So you think the police are being less than zealous in their response to you," Regan said.

"I think they were less than zealous in their response to Jenny." Serena said bitterly.

"I didn't see anything about any of this in the case file," Regan said, thinking  _I can't be that stupid as to miss that. Can I?_

"Different precincts."

"Maybe your neighbourhood cops aren't overly zealous passing information on, either." Regan said.

"I am telling you now, if there's a hint, the slightest whiff, that Jenny died because the cops thought Serena Southerlyn's girlfriend had it coming, I will represent her family in a civil suit that will nail NYPD's ass to the wall." Serena said. "But I don't want this to be a favour or special pleading. That's why I'm not asking Jack. I'd go straight to the complaints room, but …"

"But if it's nothing you don't want to start a circus."

"Ex _act_ ly." Serena said, nodding. "I don't want to raise hell over unjustified suspicions."

"Why don't you leave it with me, I'll get into it a little bit," Regan said.

"I'd appreciate it." Serena said. She ran her fingers under her eyes to remove the last traces of tears and stood up. Regan couldn't help noticing that  _her_  jacket was well-enough cut to settle smoothly back into place. "Here's my card."

"Okay," Regan said, taking the piece of creamy pasteboard. It  _felt_ expensive, embossed and heavy, not like her own. "I'll call."

"I'll wait."

Serena left the door open behind her and Regan rolled her chair back a little to watch her go across the corridor to Jack McCoy's office. Serena knocked on the open door, said something Regan couldn't hear, and then McCoy came into view and enveloped Serena in a bear hug.

"I'm so sorry," Regan heard him say. " Serena, I'm so sorry."

Serena returned the embrace, dropping her head to his shoulder, and McCoy reached past her to close the door.  _So …_

A week with Jack McCoy had left Regan all raw nerves and bruised edges. Only the moment of camaraderie they had shared after Conroy confessed to Jennifer Walker's murder had kept Regan from following the path taken by all the other ADAs second chairing Jack McCoy over the summer, straight into Arthur Branch's office with a request for a transfer to some other,  _any_  other, assignment.

That Monday morning after the two of them had worked through the night, shared a drink, listened to the DA's homespun wisdom, Regan had stumbled back to her office wanting nothing more than to take the subway home and sleep thirty hours straight. McCoy had called out to her before she made it to the lift. _Arraignments_. Regan had taken the files dazedly.

"I have to sleep first," she said, choosing admitting weakness over screwing up the arraignments as the lesser of two evils.

"Sure. Be in court by eleven thirty," McCoy said, already back at his desk, already preoccupied.

And that had been the pattern of their working relationship so far. Jack McCoy had a workload that would have drowned a lesser lawyer, or one who was less of a workaholic, and files rained down on Regan unceasingly. She ran from arraignment to deposition to her office to prepare a pre-trial to the office library to look up a disallowance motion back to the courthouse, barely able to grasp the import of each case before McCoy was asking for results. Regan had never worked so hard in her life, not even preparing for either of her attempts at the New York Bar Exam, and McCoy showed his gratitude for her efforts by ignoring them. She would have wondered if his distance was due to disappointment with her work, except he had not been slow to let her know when she fell short of his expectations. Only that morning she had given him a research brief on a defence motion to exclude evidence seized in a search as not being in plain view that had failed to include People v Sullivan and McCoy's description of her imbecility had been loud and long enough to bring Arthur Branch out of his office.

But …  _Serena, I'm so sorry_. Jack McCoy didn't hate everybody who worked for him.

Regan looked back at Serena's business card, flicking it between her fingers as she thought. Maybe solving Serena's problem would mellow McCoy's attitude a little. She indulged in a brief day-dream in which Serena proclaimed her gratitude in glowing terms while McCoy looked on, impressed.

_Get a grip_.  _Solve the damn problem first._

Back in Seattle, Regan would have known who to call right away, looking for gossip, for rumour, for the "skinny" or the "inside dope". Here in New York … options were limited.

She reached for the phone.

"Yeah, Detective Briscoe please. Regan Markham. No, I'll hold."


	3. Small Mercies, Big Favors

_Robert F J Wagner Park_

_6.30 pm Friday 22 September 2006_

* * *

 

"That ADA wants to buy us lunch again," Briscoe told his partner, leaning back in the passenger seat as Green negotiated the morning traffic.

"What ADA?"

"The one from the Walker case. Markham."

"The one you decided you don't like?" Green asked.

"I didn't decide I didn't like her, Ed. I just realised she isn't my type. To tell you the truth , I thought she was a little hinky, with the morgue and whatever," Briscoe said.

"You know she told the LT she used to be a cop, back wherever she came from?"

"Which makes more sense of the way she acted," Briscoe said. "Where's this call, anyway?"

"Here we are." Green pulled up on Battery Place.

"It's a floater?" Briscoe pulled a face.

"Yep," Green said. "But they say pretty fresh."

"Nice to know," Briscoe said. "Small mercies, eh?"

"So why does she want to buy us lunch?" Green asked. Briscoe knew he putting off the moment when they would get out of the car and deal with a waterlogged corpse. Floaters were the worst. Briscoe was happy to play along.

"Who?" he asked.

"That ADA. Markham" Green said, slowly taking the keys out of the ignition.

"She wants a favour," Briscoe said.

"A big one?" Green asked,

"I'm guessing not, since she's springing for Chinese again."

A knock on the passenger side window had made them both jump, Green's hand going to his gun. It was just a uniformed cop, and Briscoe opened the door.

"You the detectives?" the cop asked.

"That's us. We're here to detect." He got out, heard Green doing the same. He did Ed the courtesy of not looking at him for a couple of minutes, to give the younger man a moment to get his shit together. Green was jumpier these days than he'd been before he got shot, sometimes  _too_  jumpy when he was short on sleep. Briscoe tried not to embarrass him by noticing if he could help it. Now he kept his back to Green and talked to the young uniformed cop. "Whaddya got here?"

"Coupla kids playing found a body under the old wharf. Hasn't been there long. Probably pushed over the seawall by someone who didn't know jack shit about tides or getting rid of corpses."

"Yeah, yeah, leave the detecting to us, okay?" Briscoe said, only half joking. "They over here?"

He and Green scoped the area as they worked their way towards the body. Nice park, kind of family picnic place, but at night probably not that well lit.

The body was laid out on the old wharf, already in the body bag but not yet sealed. It didn't smell too bad, out in the open with the sea air. Briscoe didn't envy Elizabeth Rodgers her job on this one, though.

"Black male, approximately mid-twenties," the ME on the scene told them. "He's been dead maybe four days, been in the water that long. Cause of death - probably drowning."

"He wasn't a strong swimmer?" Green asked.

The ME rolled the body up to show the ragged holes in the back of the man's T-shirt. "With four bullets in him, not so much."

"We have an ID?" Briscoe asked.

"No wallet, no papers, no nothing. He does have this tattoo." The ME's gloved finger pointed to the back of the corpse's neck, where Briscoe could just make out something that looked like a bar-code.

"Any chance that if we run him through a supermarket scanner it'll tell us his price, name and murderer?" Briscoe asked.

"I'm afraid it's only an imitation bar-code, Detective," the ME said. "We'll have more for you in a few days when we print him. Meanwhile – "

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Missing persons. That ain't this guy's problem, though, is it?"

"Whaddya mean?" Green asked.

"He  _wasn't_  missed. The shooter got him back and centre."


	4. Not A Social Call: Two

_The Happy Dragon Chinese Restaurant,_

_Mott St_

_Monday 25 September 2006_

* * *

 

"I'm guessing this isn't a social call," Briscoe said, although if he was honest nothing so far had led him to believe otherwise. Regan Markham – the Lieu had told them she said she used to be a cop, and that made her make sense to Briscoe in a way she hadn't during the Walker case – Regan Markham listened to Green and Briscoe's cop-talk and asked the right questions and laughed at the right jokes. She might not be as much of a looker as say, Abby Carmichael, but she looked pretty good to Briscoe in her neat blue suit with her light brown hair tucked back in a twist, and she was good company and she bought lunch. But he guessed he didn't look as good to her as she did to him, and he guessed she had a reason for feeding two homicide detectives for free.

"Maybe fifty-fifty," Markham said.

"What's the other fifty?" Green asked.

"I'm about to get into something and I don't know how to do it under the radar. It's a cop thing. It's maybe a cop problem – or a problem cop."

"Hey, I don't eat cheese!" Lennie said.

"I know. Don't misunderstand me. I'm just looking to work my way around the problem. I've been told the fifth precinct has been a bit of a roadblock for hate-crime reports. Including some by or about Jennifer Walker."

"You serious?" Green said, eyebrows up.

"Yeah. You know she was on the turn, right? Ditched Conroy and got herself a girlfriend. A girlfriend I think you know – Serena Southerlyn." Markham reached across the table and snagged a spring roll with her chopsticks. "And you know Jennifer knew she was being stalked. Didya know she went to the police? And Serena did?"

"No." Briscoe said. "No, I didn't."

"And we shoulda heard that," Green said. "We're running after a murderer and there's a file on someone's desk that tells us she's been stalked and we don't hear anything about it?"

"Mighta got us to Conroy without the deal with Nettle," Markham pointed out.

"Forget getting us to Conroy," Briscoe said. "If someone had been quicker off the mark to stop Conroy before he killed her, they might have stopped Conroy before he killed her."

"I'm not saying this is something for the rat squad, but I'd like to know." Markham said.

"Well, we  _were_  the primaries on the case," Briscoe said. "If anyone has a reason to follow it up …"

"Case is closed, Lennie!" Green objected. "Conroy's pleading out."

"It ain't over till it's over," Briscoe said. "Are you rock-solid sure he's going to stick to the plea?"

"Pretty sure," Markham said.

"Maybe you aren't hearing me clearly," Briscoe said. "Are you  _rock-solid_  sure he's going to stick to the plea?"

Markham, catching on, smiled broadly. Briscoe thought for the fourth time since she sat down at the table that she had a nice smile, and that Green should ask her out. It was a slightly melancholy thought: ten years ago, he'd have been shouldering Green aside.  _Time passes_.

"It never hurts," Markham said, "to be sure. Does it, detectives?"

"We'll get that paperwork in order for you ASAP, ma'am," Briscoe said.

"I'll send a memo this afternoon," Markham promised.


	5. Not A Social Call: Three

_Office of the Medical Examiner_

_520 First Avenue_

_Monday 25 September 2006_

* * *

 

"I take it this isn't a social call," Elizabeth Rodgers said around her sandwich.

" _You_  called us," Green said. "You tell me!"

"Oh, yeah. Got a hit on your Wagner Park DB," Rodgers said, crumpling her sandwich bag and wiping her fingers on her smock. " Peter Downer, age 24, recently paroled after serving 2 years of a three year sentence for – let me see – agg assault. It wasn't his first stretch, either."

"Not a model citizen," Briscoe said.

"Not even a plasticine model," Rodgers agreed. "Shot four times in the back, two of which would likely have been fatal fairly quickly, but he fell in the water before he died and actual cause of death was drowning. Water in the lungs consistent with the samples taken where the body was found. Relative lack of post-mortem injuries lead me to conclude he lodged where he was found pretty quickly. There's a very good chance he went into the water very near there."

"CSU didn't turn up any slugs or shell casings," Green said.

"Might've been on a boat," Briscoe suggested.

"He wasn't floating, he was flying," Rodger said. "See the skin-popping abscesses here? He had two eight-balls in his pocket and his tox-screen indicates alcohol, cocaine, heroin, and marijuana."

"Who shoots a junkie, takes his wallet but leaves his stash?" Green asked.

"That's your department, detectives," Rodgers said. "The mysteries of the human heart are not the province of the medical examiners office."

"I'd like to make my heart a little less of a mystery to you," Briscoe said. "Say, over dinner?"

"I'm on lates this week," Rodgers said, "And I know how you hate to digest and dissect at the same time. But thanks for the offer." Rodgers pulled the sheet up over Peter Downer. "Hey, I hear you guys collared the asshole who killed Jennifer Walker."

"That's right," Green said.

"Good work." Rodgers said. "If I have any pull with the Almighty, his cell-mate will be a very large man with a black-market supply of Viagra."

"Didya hear why he did it?" Briscoe asked.

"Because he's batshit crazy and should be put down like a mad dog?" Rodgers asked, hands on hips, looking like she'd like to volunteer for the job herself.

"Well, that too. But you know she dumped him – for a woman!"

"Well, that justifies rape, torture and homicide." Rodgers said. "I bet she laughed at the size of his penis as well. You know I had a case three years ago, a man hacked his wife up with a machete, I counted fifty-seven separate blows. He told the jury that she was leaving him and she said it was because he never gave her an orgasm. Jury gave him Man 2."

"Hey, men are pigs," Briscoe said, shrugging.

"Not all men, Lennie," Rodgers said, and winked. " _You're_ a sweetheart."


	6. Not A Social Call: Four

_West 83rd St and Wadsworth_

_Washington Heights_

_Monday 25 September 2006_

* * *

 

"I knew it." Louise Downer's words were stoic, but Green suspected it was more shock than real resignation. "I knew when he didn't come home that something musta happened to him. The way he was living – well."

"That's what we wanted to ask you about, ma'am," Green said. "Can you tell us who he used to hang out with, how he used to spend his time?"

"How he used to  _waste_ his time, you mean? He used to buy his drugs down on the corner. Everybody knows that's where you go to buy drugs. What you do about _that_ , eh?"

"Where did he get his money, ma'am?" Briscoe asked.

"He never had no money," Louise Downer said dully.

"Most dealers don't sell on the instalment plan," Briscoe pointed out. "Was he dealing? I know you don't want to say anything bad about him – but can't find out who killed him if we don't know what he was into."

Louise Downer looked down at her clenched hands in her lap as if she was surprised to find them on the end of her wrists. "He used to boost car stereos sometimes."

"And what else?"

"God forgive me, he used to go out sometimes and come back with money. With wallets. I told him – he already did that time. I told him if he got caught he'd spend his thirtieth birthday inside. He just laughed. He said nobody would dare complain."

"What did he mean by that?" Green asked.

"I dunno." She put her head in her hands. "I dunno what he did, where he did it. I did my best! I did my best with him, Lord knows. What can you do, tell me, in this city? What can you do?"

"I don't know what to tell you, ma'am," Green said. He took a card from his pocket. "Will you call us if you remember anything else?"

She looked dully at the card, and finally nodded. "What is there to remember, anyway? My boy been in and out of jail, juvenile detention, you name it. He was a sweet kid – twenty years ago. But they go bad so fast here. I shoulda moved out of the city when I got pregnant. But I didn't want to leave my job. But I shoulda moved."

Green didn't know what to say to that.  _Yes, you should've_? The morgue and the homicide board were full of young men like Peter Downer. Young men who might have ended up selling insurance or repairing cars if they'd grown up in Wisconsin instead of New York, Duluth instead of Baltimore. Green didn't think it was all about environment. But he couldn't help noticing that you could predict parents' zip-codes by the crimes their kids were charged with.

"So we gonna to talk to the dealer?" Briscoe broke in on his train of thought.

"May as well. But you gotta figure, if the killer was from that particular circle they would have searched him for the drugs as well as the wallet."

"Yeah, but where else are we gonna look, Ed?"

Green looked up and down the street. "His momma said he was in and out of custody. Maybe the next step is to go right through all the records."

"Yeah, because my hay fever isn't bad enough this year," Briscoe grumbled, and Green laughed.

"Lennie, man, they're computerised now. No dust in sight."

"Okay," Briscoe said. "Let's talk to this punk dealer so we can cross him off the list and then get into a little research. And while we're doing it …"

"We can cover off this question of the 5th precinct for Serena. I hear you."

The two detectives headed towards the group of young men loitering on the corner. By mutual wordless agreement, they split up as they got closer, Green crossing the road and doubling around. When Briscoe strode up to the group and flashed his badge, he got as far as "Homicide. Who here – " before one of the boys bolted. Green took one long step to his left and fielded the runner around the waist, shoving him back and up against the wall.

The other boys bolted as well, stopping a safe distance up the street to watch. Green didn't care. The first one to run was either the guiltiest or the most nervous: either worked equally well when you were a cop out for information.

'Tell us about Peter Downer," Briscoe said.

"I ain't seen 'im!" the boy protested. "I ain't seen 'im all week!"

"Where would you look for him, if you were looking?" Green asked. The boy shrugged and Green bounced him off the wall a little, just enough to startle him. "Try again."

"No, man, really! He hangs here, he's at home, that's it, man! Sometime he goes off to some park, I dunno where. Says he likes to look at the water. He's kinda weird since he got out, he got hit on the head in remand and he has these kinda funny moods since then."

"Now it wouldn't be something you were selling him that gave him these funny moods, would it?" Briscoe asked.

"No way! I am not in business, you know what I mean? I am not the man to talk to about that shit."

"Who do we talk to?" Green asked.

"Uh-uh. I ain't diming  _no-one_."

"Really?" Briscoe took a bill out of his pocket, held it out so the watchers could help but miss it, then folded it and shoved it in the boy's pocket. "Funny, that's not what it looks like to me –  _or them_."

"Oh, man," the boy said, one part resignation, one part fear.

"See, if you'd co-operated, we would have knocked you around a little bit, boosted your cred. Now you'll be watching your back for the rest of your short worthless life,  _snitch_." Briscoe said.

"Unless…" Green said.

"Unless what?" the boy asked, hope returning to his face.

"Give us what we need and find out," Green said.

"Jesus. Sons of bitches."

"Watch your mouth when you're talking to a cop," Briscoe advised.

"Sons of pigs. Alright listen, the guy you want, he ain't here yet. You can find him at his sister's crib over on 84th, upstairs from the bodega, number 19. His name's Sharpie. Now come on!"

"Mickey Mouse? What kinda dealer's called Mickey Mouse?" Briscoe said good and loud. He cuffed the boy around the ear. "You little asshole, you think hindering an investigation is funny?"

"Don't mess us around, man," Green warned, equally loudly. "Give us a real name, or else …"

"Or else what?" the boy jeered. "You gonna arrest me? You gonna beat me up?"

"I might do both," Briscoe said, taking a step closer. Green loosened his grip on the boy's shirt and after a 'struggle' the boy was free. 'Let him go," Briscoe said as the boy ran down the street. "He wasn't going to tell us anything anyway."

"Don't give up your day job, man," Green advised him as they turned to trudge back towards their unmarked car.

"What, you don't think I have a future as a thespian? I'm deeply hurt, Ed!" Briscoe stopped dead in his tracks a few feet short of the car, flung open his arms and declaimed: "But soft, what wind from yonder wino breaks?"

Green had to wait to stop laughing to fire up the radio.

"Everyone's a critic," Briscoe said. "You calling for back-up?"

"Well it's not like it's a social call." Green pointed out.


	7. Looking For Luck

_Squad room_

_27 Precinct_

_10 Police Square, New York,_

_Tuesday 26 September 2006_

* * *

 

"Don't let me hear you use the words 'public service'," Anita Van Buren warned Briscoe. Her phone rang and she ignored it.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Briscoe lied. "But look, Lieu, Peter Downer was hardly a choir-boy. And he had a whole  _lot_  of friends who weren't choirboys, either."

"What about his dealer?"

"I hate to say it, but he has an iron clad alibi. New York's finest. He was waiting to make bail at the relevant time. He's given us some names, we can get some others from his file, but even if we rule out the ones who aren't in jail at the moment, we could spend all week running down these guys and asking for alibis, and you know as well as I do that all they'll say is 'I dunno where I was. I didn't do it. I dunno who did'."

"Then you better get busy, hadn't you?" Van Buren said, unimpressed. Briscoe sighed. Van Buren's phone rang again and she picked it up this time. When Briscoe made as if to leave she held up her hand, one finger raised, in the standardised police manual traffic control signal for "Hold it right there, mister."

"Van Buren. No, that is not what I said. Look, hold on." She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Look into it, Lennie. Maybe you'll get lucky."

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, is this the time to bring up the Walker case?"

She frowned. "I thought he took a plea?"

"He did. ADA Markham wants us to look into some loose ends in case it goes pear-shaped."

Van Buren rolled her eyes. "Rookies! Okay. Don't put too much time in on it."

"No, ma'am," Briscoe said.

Green was waiting for him, perched on the edge of his desk, one foot up on his chair, chatting to Ana Cordova. "So how about you and me try and catch a game sometime?" Briscoe heard him say. "I've had some luck with tickets in the past."

"Hey Ed, how about you and me try and catch a murderer sometime," Briscoe said sourly. "I hear you've had some luck with that in the past."

"See you later, Ed," Cordova said. Green watched her all the way to the door.

"Word of advice, partner," Briscoe said. "Don't fish off the company pier. And I'm speaking from personal experience."

"Wasn't yours married?" Green asked.

"Well, if you want to get all picky about the details… So the Lieu says we have to turn over all the rocks on Downer, see what crawls out. And I filled her in on Markham's memo."

"Where do you want to start?"

"Well, the filing clerk at the 5th is the daughter of an old partner of mine." Briscoe said. "I'm thinking, maybe I should look her up for old time's sake while you work your computer magic and get a list of any 'known associates' of Peter Downer who aren't in jail – or weren't last Monday."

"How come you get to go talk to a pretty girl while I stare at a computer screen?" Green protested.

"Because you get all the luck," Briscoe said. "But Ed, you know, I'm starting to wonder if you took a knock to the head recently that affected your thought processes. Be smart about this – ask Ana to help you."


	8. Not A Social Call: Five

_File Room_

_5th Precinct_

_19 Elizabeth St, New York_

_Tuesday 26 September 2006_

* * *

 

"Well, I'm glad to see you, Uncle Lennie, and I'm glad to see you looking so well!" Mary Patterson said. Briscoe knew she really meant  _And thank God you're still sober._

"How's the family? Everybody well?"

"You bet. Look." Mary pulled a picture fold out of her handbag. "Elena started ballet last month, see – I worry, you know, about the dieting? But she loves the tutu  _so much_."

"She's adorable," Briscoe said, not needing to lie. "She'll be breaking hearts in a few years."

"I'm going to cross that bridge when I come to it," Mary said. "And here – here we all are at the fourth of July picnic."

"Looks like it was a lot of fun." Briscoe said.

"You should come to dinner, Uncle Lennie," Mary said. "I would have called, but …"

_But I wasn't sure you were still sober_ , Briscoe filled in. "I'd like that," he said, and meant it. "But listen, Mary, I have to be honest. This isn't just a social call."

"I kinda guessed," Mary said, unperturbed. "Cop's daughter, remember? What do you need?"

"An old friend of mine has been having some trouble with vandalism," Briscoe simplified. "And she feels like it isn't being taken seriously."

"It's probably not a high priority," Mary said. "You know how it is in the city these days."

"I do. And that's why I don't want to make a big deal out of it. But this friend,  _she_ might. So I told her I'd take care of it – so she didn't take it further." Briscoe leaned forward. "But now I have to take care of it."

"Sure," Mary said.

"I don't want any of your people feeling like I'm looking over their shoulders," Briscoe said. "I was hoping you could let me have a little look at the files."

"I don't se why not," Mary said. "What's her name?"

"Southerlyn. Lives over on Spring St."

"Just a sec." Mary opened drawers in the filing cabinet. "Here we go. That's funny. Otis Langdon took these complaints. They're marked 'no further action'. All of them."

"Can I have a copy?" Briscoe asked.

"Well … I shouldn't really."

"I know. But my eyes aren't what they used to be, these days. It'd be good if I could read them outside, in daylight."

"I guess … just don't get me in trouble, Uncle Lennie."

"Kiddo," Briscoe said, "I don't think you're going to be the one in trouble."


	9. Looking For Luck, And Finding It

_Squad room_

_27 Precinct_

_10 Police Square, New York,_

_Wednesday 27 September 2006_

* * *

 

"You don't look happy this morning, Lennie," Green said.

"That's funny, because I feel ecstatic," Briscoe said sourly. "You, on the other hand, look very pleased with yourself. Courtside seats for Officer Cordova?"

"I have solved the case," Green said, and clasped his hands over his head like a winning boxer.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Get this." He took a piece of paper off his desk. "Turns out the gun that fired the bullets that killed Peter Downer used to be a legal firearm. It was registered in 1995 to a Ms Anne Forrest. Ms Forrest reported it stolen two years ago – right after her then sixteen year old son Lionel ran away from home. Lionel Forrest is a repeat customer of the department of corrections for soliciting in, have a guess."

" Robert F J Wagner Park." Briscoe said.

"Amazing accuracy, Lennie. And guess what else?" Green could hardly contain his glee. " Lionel Forrest is currently in Riker's awaiting trial on charges of assaulting a police officer. He was picked up two days after Peter Downer went into the water."

"That's a solid lead," Briscoe admitted.

"It surely is. And what's got you looking like you need an antacid?"

"I got the files on Serena's complaints from the 5th. Take a look at these." Briscoe tossed the file onto Green's desk and got up to get a cup of coffee. When he came back the happy smile had been wiped off Green's face.

"She made all those complaints," he said. "And it's  _Serena_   _Southerlyn_. She knew it was a hate crime. She used all the right words."

"Yeah, and Otis Langdon marked every single one "no further action" and buried it in a filing cabinet." Briscoe said. "Skip to the second last. See anything familiar?"

"Like what?" Green asked.

"Like the name Jennifer Walker, also complaining about being followed by a man she was able to identify as - "

"Oh no, man." Green dropped the file on his desk. "Say it isn't so."

Briscoe shrugged. "So what do we do? Fill in the Lieu? Kick it straight to Markham? I can't help feeling that McCoy would happily rip Langdon a new one."

"Really? He and Serena fought  _all_ the  _time._  Made my head hurt being in the same room." Green said.

" Ed, Jack McCoy fights with  _everyone_  all the time. He and Jamie Ross nearly came to blows once, and look at them now. McCoy told me he never agreed with the DA about firing Serena."

"Branch can her because of you-know-what?"

"If she thought he had, she would have sued him into the ground and under it," Briscoe said. "And McCoy would have helped her. You know how he is about principles. And you know old-fashioned he can be about riding to the rescue of a damsel in distress."

"Even one who bats for the other team?"

"Is this causing you a problem, Ed?" Briscoe asked.

"Hey, I'm just  _curious_ ," Green said, and then with a sly grin: "and, you know, wishing I got to watch."

"Got to watch what?" Van Buren said behind him. Briscoe watched Green try to work out what to say.

"Ah, well, LT," he started, then stalled.

"What are you two talking about?" Van Buren asked.

"Serena Southerlyn," Briscoe said helpfully, and Van Buren turned a look of withering disgust on Green

"I don't want to know if you meant what I thought you meant," she said, "but I do want you to stop sitting around wondering about watching people you got no business watching and, I don't know, go out and solve a crime or something. Clear?"

" Crystal," Green said quickly. Briscoe took pity on him.

"Actually, Lieu, the reason we were talking about Southerlyn is because of a crime."

"Oh yeah?"

"I think we'd better talk about this one in your office, Lieu," Briscoe said.

"In my office?" Van Buren said, eyebrows rising. "Now I  _know_ that can't be good."


	10. Not A Social Call: Six

_Riker's Island_

_Thursday 28 September 2006_

* * *

 

Briscoe and Green argued about it all the way to Riker's the next morning.

"I'm not saying it doesn't need investigating," Green said. "But the LT should kick it upstairs. I don't feel right about leaking something to a lawyer whose just going to turn around and make the whole NYPD look bad."

"Look at it this way," Briscoe said. "Dammit, did you see that guy? Where'd he get his licence, out of a Cheerio packet?"

"You want to pull him over?"

"Nah, let him go. We're already late. But I mean, how hard is it to use an indicator? It's right there by the wheel, for chrissakes." Briscoe stared at the offending driver for a moment, looking as if he was reconsidering handing out a moving violation.

"Look at it this way?" Green prompted after a minute.

"Oh, yeah. Look at it this way. Southerlyn didn't have to try and check it out before she filed suit. She must have some pretty strong suspicions. She could have gone straight to the press – enough noise would make the department look bad regardless of the outcome."

"Okay, I'll give her that," Green said. "So you're saying we're not really telling tales out of school?"

"It's the Lieu saying it," Briscoe pointed out. They pulled into the parking lot. "Serena Southerlyn did us more than a few solids when she worked for McCoy. She's not the enemy, even if she did go to private practice."

"She sued us, man!" Green said, slamming the car door good and hard.

" _Monahan_  sued us," Briscoe corrected. "Southerlyn represented her. And who's to say she wasn't right? Did you know Monahan?"

"No." Green admitted.

"Do you honestly think an out-and-proud dyke cop got every opportunity a Lennie Briscoe or an Otis Langdon did?"

"All right," Green said. "You win. She's a fucking saint, and we should throw open departmental files to her whenever she asks so she can purify us of our sins. But  _you_  fucking do it, Lennie, and leave me out of it."

He strode off without waiting for Briscoe, not sure whether he was angry with Lennie for being wrong or for being right.  _Maybe Southerlyn_   _did do right by us when she was an ADA_ , he thought,  _but it was only because the job required it. She was never like McCoy – or Abbie Carmichael_.  _Now, **there's**  a couple of lawyers who know what side they oughta be on._

His mood wasn't improved to find ADA Regan Markham waiting for them at the sign-in counter, pass already clipped to her jacket.

"Morning, counsellor," he said. "You catching on this one?"

"Looks like," Markham said. "I'm authorised to deal this down to Murder Two if you get a confession. Or if the circumstances justify, I'm to ask McCoy for permission to go to Man One."

"Peter Downer was shot four times in the back and robbed," Green protested.

"You are preaching to the choir, detective," Markham said. "How ya doin', Detective Briscoe?"

"Kinda out of breath from trying to catch up with my partner," Briscoe said. "And how are  _you_ doing, Ms Markham?"

"Call me Regan," Markham said. "I had a grade school teacher called Ms Markham. Every time you say it I get a reflex urge to swallow my gum."

"Are we going to do this?" Green interrupted. Briscoe rolled his eyes and Markham looked from one to the other, seeming a little puzzled.

Green lagged behind the other two as they went through the gate and along the cold grey corridors to the interview room, waiting for Briscoe to tell Markham about Otis Langdon and not wanting to be involved. Sure enough, after a couple of minutes Briscoe raised it, pretending it was a passing thought.

"You can tell Serena her suspicions are justified," Green heard Briscoe say. Markham stopped so suddenly that Green almost walked into her.

"God  _damn_  it," she said. "Sorry, detective. Son of a  _bitch_. This is going to be a circus. We're going to have lawyers crawling all over the department."

"Yeah,  _counsellor_ ," Green said. His tone had an edge, but Markham didn't seem to notice. She grinned up at him.

"I forget sometimes my badge has different words on it these days." Then, serious again, "The thing that pisses me off the most about bad cops is all the good collars that go down the drain because they're tainted by association. If this hits the papers every scumbag who so much as spent the night in a holding cell in the 5th is going to be filing an appeal."

"So keep it out of the papers," Green said.

"Somehow I don't think that's going to be my call," Markham said. "Here we are."

"You want to interrogate this one, too?" Green asked.

"Cool it, Ed," Briscoe said.

"I'm here to observe and deal, if warranted." Markham said. "I won't get in your way again, Detective Green."

She seemed sincere.  _Sincere for a lawyer_ , Green thought, but with less rancour. The stunt Markham had pulled on the Walker case had been a very big play, but it had got a result. And she had sat in the box and stared Conroy down while he set out the details of his crime, unflinching, walked out with the signed confession in her briefcase, seemingly unmoved but the colour of cottage cheese.

And indeed, she didn't even try to cramp the style of the two detectives when Lionel Forrest was brought in to the interview room, but stood leaning against the wall, silent.

"You have a lawyer, Lionel?" Briscoe asked, and got a shrug. "Well, listen, you have the right to have a lawyer here. You don't – "

"I know all that, Captain Obvious," Forrest said. "I signed that piece of paper when they picked me up. And I'm guessing this isn't a social call. What you want?"

"It's like this, Lionel," Briscoe said. "We'd like to know what you did with the gun."

Forrest leaned back in his chair, squinting suspiciously at the cops. If Green hadn't known he had a solicitation bust on his record he would have been able to guess. The skinny redhead had 'rent boy' written all over him. "What gun?" he asked.

Briscoe slapped the table hard and Forrest jumped. " _Your_  gun, moron. The one you shot Peter Downer with."

"Who says I – "

" _Save_ it," Briscoe said. "Now you listen to me and you listen good.  _We got you_. Peter Downer was shot with your gun in the park where you pick up tricks. And he was also robbed – which makes it a Felony Homicide which means, in case you're wondering, the needle. And you, Lionel, you got nothing we need."

"Then why are you asking about the gun?" Forrest asked.

"Our Lieutenant is a stickler for tying up loose ends," Briscoe said. "Save us the paper work. What did you do with the gun?"

"Listen, man," Green said on cue, moving his chair a little around the table to put some distance between him and Briscoe, "we can't help you unless you help us. Now, I know what things can be like in your line of work, late at night, a man needs some protection, am I right?" That got a grudging nod from Forrest. "And maybe one thing leads to another, and things happen that maybe you didn't expect to happen. Everybody can understand that. That's why we brung the lady from the DA's office. So you can tell us all what happened and we can work it out. Isn't that right, Ms Markham?"

"That's right," Markham said. "But nobody can help you, Mr Forrest, unless you tell the truth."

"If we have to take you to trial," Briscoe said, "and fill in all those forms, nobody's going to be happy. You're looking at fifty years. Maybe the needle."

"The DA is up for re-election. Executing homicidal rent boys, always popular with the voters." Green pointed out.

"But if you tell us what happened, maybe we can work something out," Markham said.

"Was it self-defence?" Green asked.

Forrest looked at him a long moment, eyes lizard-flat. "Yeah," he said at last. "It was self defence."

"So you shot him?" Green pushed.

"Yeah, in self defence."

"Come on," Green said, moving closer to Forrest. "It's got to be the truth, man. Otherwise no-one can help you. And we got the body, so we know you shot him in the back."

"And took his wallet," Briscoe added.

"You don't know anything," Forrest gritted between clenched teeth. "You don't know any-fucking-thing, stupid pig cops!"

_Bingo_. If they were guilty, they always reached this moment, sooner or later. Sometimes their lawyers got there first. Sometimes it was so very much later that the trial was over and done with before they got there. But in Green's experience, there was always the point when the need to justify, to be understood, to explain, overwhelmed good sense and native caution.

"Why don't you tell us," Green said gently. "Why don't you make us understand, Lionel."

"What are you going to do for me?" Forrest asked.

"Murder Two," Markham said. "If I like what I hear."


	11. Like The Troubled Sea

_Office of Executive Assistant District Attorney Jack_   _McCoy_

_10th Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_Thursday 28 September 2006_

_7.30 pm_

* * *

 

Jack McCoy closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids as if that would ward off the threatening headache. He hoped it wasn't the beginning of a migraine, although he knew it was probably a vain hope given how frequently they had plagued him over the summer.

_Trial starts Monday_ , he thought, with none of the usual anticipation that the thought of the arena of the courtroom usually brought.  _Trial starts Monday_. Instead, he was oppressed by a grinding weariness at the idea of going through the motions once more.  _Opening statement, witnesses, cross-examination, summation …_ Once, he had wanted to win and had wanted justice and had found prosecution the perfect marriage of the two. It seemed so long ago he could barely imagine it from under the blanket of lead that weighed him down, but he knew it had been mere months before.  _Before_  … Before  _what_  was a thought he would not allow himself to complete.

McCoy dropped his hands and opened his eyes, staring down at the witness statements. The witnesses were prepped – well prepped. He'd done it himself. They would say exactly what they were supposed to on the stand, they would hold up under cross-examination. He should be pleased to know it, but he felt only relief.

Once, he had wanted to win and had wanted justice.

Now, if he was honest with himself, all he wanted to do was lock them up.  _All of them_. Off the streets. Out of his courtroom.  _Out of my life_.

A knock on his door made him look up. Regan Markham, arms full of files, stood awkwardly half-in and half-out of the doorway. McCoy suppressed a flash of irritation at her, at the way she tiptoed around him as if he frightened her, at the simple fact that she was there.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked.

"What does it look like, Ms Markham?" McCoy snapped.

"I'll come back," she said quickly.

"No, come in," McCoy said, shutting the folder in front of him and returning it to the file where it belonged. "What do you have for me?"

"The three felony arraignments this afternoon?" Markham came fully into the office, sat down across the desk when McCoy waved her to the chair. "Carrachi took the misdemeanour plea we offered, sentencing in two weeks. Shevsky and Michelson entered not guilty. Adjourned to Part F."

"Okay," McCoy said. He hoped Markham had looked a little more presentable in court than she did in his office. "You'll be presenting to the Grand Jury. Are you up to it?"

Markham paused.

"Yes or no, Ms Markham, it isn't a trick question!" McCoy said.

"Yes, of course, Mr McCoy," Markham said quickly.

"Alright. Make sure you're a little tidier for the Grand Jury – you need them to respect you. What else?"

Markham looked down at herself and coloured, obviously noticing how creased her suit was for the first time. "Uh, I deposed Frank Lowson, Marjorie Lowson and the housekeeper, Louisa Almedo, as you asked. I've made a list of notes for witness prep and attached it at the end of the file."

"I'll look at it."

"And you'll be pleased to know Lionel Forrest accepted a plea on Murder Two this morning. We should have him all the way through to sentencing by the end of next month."

" Lionel Forrest – remind me?" McCoy said.

"Shot Peter Downer four times in the back, took his wallet." Markham said.

"And you thought that was worth Murder Two?" McCoy said, incredulous, voice rising despite his headache.

"You said – " Markham stuttered, started again. "No weapon, no witnesses, no forensics, you said to make the deal if I could. He confessed on condition of the deal. I don't think we could get a conviction if it went to trial and – "

"Alright!" McCoy cut her off with a raised hand. "Alright. Sounds like you did the right thing. Are you convinced the confession is honest?"

"I think he's trying to make himself look better about the whole thing," Markham said, and shrugged. "No surprises. He picks up tricks in that park, and Downer's mother said her son used to come home sometimes with wallets and money. An associate of Downer's said he used to hang in the park. Forrest says that Downer was robbing the rent boys and their johns, and beating them. Forrest started carrying his gun for protection. One night he sees Downer starting to attack another one of the working boys and shoots him."

"And his lawyer let him plead with that story?" McCoy was surprised. "That could make a jury think about self-defence."

"He doesn't have a lawyer. Signed a Miranda waiver when he was first picked up, too. Plus, four bullets in the back, robbing the body, tipping Downer still alive into the water, disposing of the weapon …" Markham smiled. "I pointed out how much juries like to hear about consciousness of guilt."

"Okay. Anything else?" McCoy asked, then belatedly realised he should have said something more approving of the deal.  _Good job. Well done_. He had used to be the kind of man who didn't need to think of that in advance. He had used to be the kind of boss whose ADAs looked to him as a mentor, albeit a demanding one, not a monster.

_And my guidance did Alex **so** much good._

_Fuck it._

Markham was still sitting in front of him like a frog on a log.

"I asked if there was anything else?" McCoy prodded.

Markham hesitated. "Kind of," she said. "Kind of about the Walker case."

"What's gone wrong?" McCoy asked. "Conroy retract his plea?"

"No, no, nothing like that. It's – it's about Serena Southerlyn."

"What about her?" McCoy asked immediately.

"She came to see me last week, she said that she'd made a bunch of reports about being harassed, her and Jenny Walker, before Walker got killed. When we locked up Conroy she thought that was that, but it's still going on."

"She didn't say anything," McCoy said. "What's been going on? Has she been to the police? Have they put a car on her? Have – "

"She's been to the police. And that's the problem. No joy from the 5th Precinct. She was thinking that maybe if the police had acted a little more forcefully, they might have noticed Conroy."

"But it wasn't Conroy?" McCoy asked.

"Well, obviously, not  _all_  Conroy," Markham said. "But Walker knew he was stalking her and knew who he was and she went to the police as well. And the cop she dealt with – the same one Southerlyn dealt with, Officer Otis Langdon – marked it all 'no further action'."

McCoy closed his eyes, saw scene of crime photos, saw a woman in a drift of leaves with her mouth full of newspaper, saw  _the trunk of a car, and_ – opened his eyes, feeling nauseous, tasting bile.

"You okay?" Markham asked.

"I'm perfectly fine, Ms Markham," McCoy said, glaring at her. He was about to add something involving the words  _your own business_ , but Markham didn't give him the chance.

"It's just that you're in your shirt-sleeves in an air-conditioned office, and you're sweating," she said carefully, her tone so neutral McCoy could detect not even a trace of nosiness or condescension to take offence at. "Would you like some water?"

"Yes," McCoy admitted, and while Markham was at the water cooler in the hall he dug his bottle of Sumatriptan out of his drawer.

He took two with the water Markham brought him, scowl defying her to say a word. She was smart enough to keep quiet.

"Call the 2-7," McCoy said once he was sure the pills were staying down. "Ask Anita Van Buren to put a car on Serena's home, as a favour to me. Tell her to make sure Serena's safe."

"I'll do that right away, Mr McCoy," Markham said. "I told Serena I would call her once I had looked into her questions about her complaints. Should I –"

"No." McCoy said, cutting her off. "I'll talk to her. But not yet. I want to know more about this police officer – Otis Langdon. Pull his jacket first thing in the morning."

"Yes, Mr McCoy," Markham said.

"Anything else?" he asked her.

"No, s- no." She hastily gathered up her files and stood. "I'll be in my office, if you need anything else."

McCoy glanced at the clock. Past eight. No wonder Markham looked like she'd been through the wringer today. "Go on home," he said, and when she looked at him in obvious surprise he felt a twinge of guilt.

"I'm fine, Mr McCoy," she said, and then smiled. "No rest for the wicked, huh?"

"Maybe," he retorted, "but we're on the side of the angels. Call the 2-7, and then  _go home_."

And when she had done just that, McCoy sat in silence for a moment, listening for any other noise on the 10th floor.  _Nothing_. He was, again, the last one here.

_As Markham said, no rest for the wicked._ The biblical verse came back to him, resurfacing from a long-ago Sunday school lesson.

"For the wicked are like the troubled sea," McCoy said aloud, his voice swallowed by the darkness outside his office door, "whose waters cast up mire and dirt."

_As good a metaphor as any._


	12. Confessions And Other Difficult Moments

_10th Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_8.00 am Friday 29 September 2006_

* * *

 

Regan blinked blurry eyes, brought the papers in front of her into focus again. Anita Van Buren had returned the favour of Regan's late night phone-call with a six am update on Serena's welfare ("No, Ms Markham, no trouble at all."). Regan, who had only just fallen asleep again, thanked her and considered using the DA's Office emergency contact list to pass the favour on to Jack McCoy, but wiser second thoughts and self-preservation intervened. She had dragged herself out of bed and into the office and left a note on McCoy's desk about Serena, put in a call to Records to have Otis Langdon's jacket sent to McCoy and got started drafting the complaint on Lionel Forrest.

_Oh god I'm so tired._ Bad sign at 8 am. She sighed, reached for the phone.

"Hi, this is ADA Markham. I need the criminal history for Lionel Forrest. Yeah, I want to arraign him today. He's  _already_  in custody. No, charged. Assault police resist arrest. Well, it turns out he also shot somebody. I know. Yeah. Thank you."

_Okay._ The files would come up with the next delivery. Meanwhile – meanwhile Regan would get coffee.

There was a few inches of yesterday's brewing still in the pot and Regan tipped the bitter sludge into a mug and nuked it in the lunchroom microwave. Took a sip and pulled a face.  _Foul._

Foul, but hot. By the time she'd finished her coffee and written the complaint, Forrest's records were waiting for her.

Regan liked a defendant like Lionel Forrest, a defendant with a big fat file of previous convictions. She paged through them, hoping to find a pattern of violence or robbery, but they were almost all for solicitation – until she got to the last few pages, the current charges on which Forrest was waiting for trail.  _Assault … resist …_  Regan skimmed down the page, frowning. According to the complaint, Forrest had been walking along the street when he suddenly took it into his head to attack the nearest cop, who had been on his own because his partner was buying coffee.  _Coffee my ass,_ Regan thought, remembering her own years of foot-patrol,  _you don't leave your partner alone at 4am for a cup of joe_.

But Forrest couldn't weigh more than one forty five soaking wet, and he'd just up and belted a police officer? Regan kept reading, hoping it would start making sense, until her eyes lit on the name of the police officer who'd been assaulted and who had made the resisted arrest.

_Otis_   _Landgon_.

"Shit!" Regan bolted to her feet and flew across the corridor to McCoy's office. Looking in the door she saw him with the phone to his ear and her heart sank.

"Yes, I'll hold," McCoy said.

"Is that Serena Southerlyn?" Regan asked urgently.

McCoy covered the phone's mouthpiece with his palm. "In some circles, Ms Markham, it is considered  _impolite_ to interrupt." His voice was only just the right side of 'civil' but Regan didn't have time to heed warning signs.

"Are you calling Serena Southerlyn?" Regan was almost hopping from foot to foot in impatience.

"Yes, as a matter of fact – "

"Hang up the phone," she ordered. McCoy looked at her incredulously. "Hang up the phone, Mr McCoy! Hang up the fucking phone!"

McCoy didn't move, just stared at her, and Regan felt her next words die in her mouth, nailed by the famous McCoy hard-ass prosecutorial glare. The silence stretched out between them, silence measured by the number of heartbeats she could count before McCoy opened his mouth to say  _You're fired_ , enough silence for her knees to start to tremble.

Deliberately, he took his hand away from the phone. " Serena?" he said, and Regan closed her eyes. "I'm going to have to call you back. Okay."

Regan's eyes flew open and she gasped with relief. Very carefully, McCoy hung up the phone and folded his hands on his desk. " Ms Markham, I assume you have an excellent explanation," he said in a tone that made it clear to Regan that he assumed no such thing. "Let's hear it."

" Otis Langdon arrested Lionel Forrest," Regan said succinctly, although she was embarrassed that her voice shook a little. She walked up to his desk and laid the complaint form from Forrest's last arrest on McCoy's desk. "And I think it's bogus. And as soon as Serena Southerlyn starts yelling and screaming about Otis Langdon and his prejudices, every arrest he's made comes under extra scrutiny."

"You want me to lie to Serena Southerlyn so you can get your plea agreement through?"

"Not lie," Regan said. "Just – delay. Once we get Forrest sentenced, it won't matter that Langdon picked him up for being a faggot in a public place." McCoy's involuntary expression of disgust was a belated reminder she was no longer in a squad room, and she tried to back-pedal. "As Langdon might put it."

"I thought you said the confession was sound?"

"It is. It is. I think."

"You  _think_?" McCoy's voice rose.

"To the best of my judgement, it  _is_ sound," Regan said, her words tumbling over each other as she tried to explain before McCoy could cut her off again. "But – you know the kind of lawyers who will be crawling all over Otis Langdon's arrest record the minute Serena Southerlyn files or opens her mouth in front of a microphone. The case against Forrest is, barring his confession, which you yourself said could be spun as self-defence, almost entirely circumstantial. Do we really want to be facing some cashed-up top-firm celebrity lawyer slumming it in pro bono for the sake of a headline - "

"I think I can handle the jackals, Ms Markham," McCoy said. "But I appreciate your concern."

"Why court trouble we don't need?" Regan pleaded. "This isn't required disclosure. Just wait. Just wait a few weeks and then …"

McCoy sat for a moment, looking down at the complaint form. "No," he said at last, and gave it back to Regan. "Prosecutorial zeal is one thing. Covering up malfeasance that may have led to a woman's death is another. I won't protect Otis Langdon for one minute, let alone two weeks,  _whatever_  case is on the line." He reached for the phone and started dialling, then paused and gave her a level stare. "Was there anything else, Ms Markham, or can I have some privacy?"

"Yes, Mr McCoy," Regan said meekly, and turned to go.

" Ms Markham," McCoy said before she reached the door.

"Yes, Mr McCoy?"

"You look like hell. Why don't you take tomorrow off?"

"Tomorrow's Saturday," Regan pointed out.

"Well, then," McCoy said, "take  _two_  days. And close the door on your way out."

Regan nodded wordlessly, and slunk back to her desk. She was moderately confident the memory of that conversation –  _Hang up the fucking phone, Mr_   _McCoy! -_ would make her break out in a sweat every time she remembered it.

_Not fired_ , she reminded herself.

_Yet_.


	13. Opposing Counsel

_10th Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_6pm_   _Monday 2 October 2006_

* * *

 

"Well, Jack, you can be a hard man to get ahold of," Danielle Melnick said, dropping her briefcase on his desk and settling herself in the visitor's chair.

"That's funny, Danielle," McCoy said, "because I've heard you say something similar under different circumstances."

"Ha ha," Danielle said. "You got any whiskey in that drawer of yours?"

"Yeah. You need a drink?"

"No, but you're about to." Danielle snapped open her briefcase and took out a handful of notices. "Here you go. Notice to appear for Lionel Forrest. Notice of Mr Forrest's rejection of your ADA's plea offer. Motion to exclude the confession. Aaaaand, lucky last, motion to dismiss."

"On what grounds?" McCoy said incredulously.

"The dismiss? You have absolutely no way of sustaining the charge against Mr Forrest without the confession."

"He told two cops and an ADA that he shot the victim four times in the back and took his wallet. Murder Two is a gift! You know that if this goes to trial I'll ask for the death penalty. Does your client know?"

"My client knows that he was conned into confessing by two cops and an ADA riding the back of a false arrest." Danielle retorted, eyes flashing. McCoy rolled his eyes, reached down to his bottom drawer for the whiskey.

"I hope you're not planning to drink alone," Danielle said.

"No," McCoy said, and poured two glasses. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

He studied her over his glass. "You're looking well, Danielle," he said at last.

She looked at him sharply, clearly taken aback at the sincerity of his tone. "Thanks. I wish I could say the same to you."

McCoy snorted. "You don't change!"

"And that's why you love me." Danielle drained her glass. "Seriously, Jack, take a holiday!"

"Once I get this lunatic suppression motion thrown out of the Huntley hearing, I'll consider it!"

"You don't change either. Smug as ever. I see you have a new girl in your assistant's office."

"She's temporary." McCoy said, good humour vanishing.

"They all are, Jack," Danielle said. " _You_  know that."

And she was gone, leaving an empty glass with lipstick on the rim, the faintest tang of perfume and a handful of blue paper that promised to cause McCoy a major headache.

He drained his glass and put it down hard.

Regan Markham was not at her desk. McCoy looked over her desk, trying to find a post-it and a pen. Today's papers, a stack of complaint files – no post-its. He pulled open the top drawer of her desk and found it empty. Second drawer – empty.

" Mr McCoy?" Markham said from the doorway.

"I was looking for something to leave you a note," he explained.

"Under the desk." Markham slipped past him and fished a cardboard file box from the desk's foot well. As she rummaged through it McCoy could see over her shoulder that it held pens, post-its, a notepad, a bottle of water and a bottle of Tylenol – "Here," Markham said, holding out a pen and pad, then colouring and letting her hand fall to her side. "Oh. You can just tell me."

"I came to tell you that you were right about the Forrest case. He has a lawyer – and I bet she found him rather than vice-versa."

"No surprise," Markham said. "Seen the papers?"

"I've been in court all day," McCoy reminded her.

Markham flipped open the day's  _Daily News_. McCoy saw pictures of a cop he presumed was Otis Langdon, pictures of Serena, pictures of a woman who looked a little like Regan Markham and who McCoy had only seen before in a scene-of-crime photograph  _mouth bulging open with newspaper eyes fixed open in terror_ –  _tape wound around her head so tight her lips are mashed against her teeth -_

" Mr McCoy?"

" Jennifer Walker was a reporter for the  _News_ , no wonder they splashed this big," McCoy said, hardly knowing what he was saying, talking so that Markham would not realise he was suddenly at sea in a heaving darkness.

"Of course," Markham said. "And it's a nice story, easy to write – journalists like that – " Her voice ran on, tone neutral, content meaningless, and McCoy let her blather nonsense until his vision cleared.

" Forrest has changed his mind about the plea," McCoy said when he could, cutting her off, "and his lawyer is moving to suppress the confession."

"On what grounds?" Markham asked.

McCoy slapped the papers down on her desk. "You tell me, Ms Markham. It's your case."

"Who's representing him?" Markham asked, leafing through the notices.

" Danielle Melnick."

"Is she good?"

"She's given me a run for my money in the past. I'm in court all week on the Arrediatton case. See if you can get the Huntley hearing put off. If the judge won't wear it, be ready to brief me. And make it thorough."


	14. Not A Social Call: Seven

_Chambers of Judge Lisa_   _Pongracic_

_Supreme Court Criminal Term NY_

_111 Centre St_

_12.30 pm Thursday 5th October_

* * *

 

The chambers of a judge of the Supreme Court Criminal Term were more luxuriously appointed and larger than even the DA's own office, but, Regan reflected, Jack McCoy and Danielle Melnick still managed to fill the room and use up all the available oxygen. She stood against the wall, clutching an armload of papers that she hoped would cover everything McCoy could possibly need, and kept her mouth shut.

Thirty minutes earlier she had watched from the gallery as Jack McCoy brought a defence witness to a teary admission that yes, the alibi he had provided for his daughter was a lie. At the start of the lunchbreak she had hurried to meet him at the door. When she congratulated him he looked at her as if she were speaking a language he had heard about but couldn't comprehend. When she told him Judge Pongracic had declared she would hear Melnick's motion in the lunch hour today without a full Huntley hearing, McCoy had spoken a language that most lawyers tried to avoid in the courthouse.

She had briefed him as thoroughly as she could while he devoured a sandwich in five mouthfuls, and then they were off to chambers.

"I hope you had time to get something to eat, Jack," Melnick said. "You've been busy today, I hear."

"I'm fine, Danielle. I hope this pro-bono case isn't taking you away from paying clients whose cases you actually have a chance of winning," McCoy retorted acidly.

"This isn't a social call, counsellors," Judge Lisa Pongracic said, opening a Styrofoam container of hot lasagne, the smell of which reminded Regan she had eaten nothing since breakfast. "Let's get on with it."

"Your honour, you have my motion to exclude the statements my client made to the police – " Danielle Melnick said.

"You mean his confession he committed the crime?" McCoy interrupted.

Pongracic waved her fork at him. "There's no jury here, Mr McCoy, save your confected outrage."

"There's no jury here, your honour, and nor is there a Huntley hearing," McCoy said. "Weak as Ms Melnick's motion is, challenges to the admissibility of defendant's statements should be made -"

"Only challenges of fact," Melnick said. "My client Mr Forrest does not allege that Detectives Briscoe and Green have misrepresented the facts of their conversation with him. The question of admissibility is entirely one of law."

"She's got you, Mr McCoy," Pongracic said.

"There is no legal barrier to the admission – " McCoy started to say, only to be cut off by Melnick once more.

"There is no legal  _precedent_  to the admission at trial of statements made to the DA's office as part of –  _and conditional on_  – a plea negotiation." Melnick said. "Mr Forrest's 'confession' was part of a plea bargain. Since he no longer wishes to plead guilty to Murder Two, you can't use the confession."

"Is that true, Ms Markham?" Judge Pongracic asked. "Was the use of the confession conditional on the plea bargain?"

"No," Regan said baldly.

Danielle Melnick whipped round to stare at her. Regan met her gaze blankly, using the exact same expression generations of police recruits perfected for crowd control or reception duty. She was confident that not even Danielle Melnick's intense scrutiny could get under the surface of that practiced benign indifference. Even so, when Melnick turned back to the judge without speaking, Regan was relieved. She glanced at McCoy and was puzzled to see him still staring at her, expression half-way between anger and dismay.

"What about it, Ms Melnick? You can't exclude a confession that was made  _without_  plea bargaining conditions," Pongracic prodded.

"Your honour, there remains the Miranda problem," Melnick said.

"The defendant was properly Mirandized at his arrest!" McCoy protested, his attention snapping back to Melnick and the judge. Regan was relieved – for a moment she'd worried he was about to lose the thread of the argument as he sometimes lost the thread of the conversation when they were in the office.  _No._ McCoy was focused, intent.

"A totally unjustified arrest made by a homophobic police officer purely on the grounds that my client is a homosexual," Melnick countered.

"The arresting officer's motivation does not affect the validity of the Miranda warning," McCoy said. "That is precisely why we have standardised procedures, your honour. No court can accurately unfold the secret motivations of any given police officer. No lawyer can pretend to make 'windows into men's hearts'. Are there homophobic police officers? Are there racist police officers, sexist ones? Undoubtedly, in some cases, yes. But police procedure exists to make sure that every man and woman arrested by every police officer gets their rights. Regardless of his motivations, Officer Langdon mirandized Ms Melnick's client and he signed a waiver. He cannot then claim that he  _forgot_ his rights after a few nights at Riker's."

"Your honour, I'm not going to remind you that the question of Miranda in relation to inmates charged with additional, unrelated offences has yet to be decided by the Supreme Court," Melnick said smoothly. "But in fact that question does not arise here. Even if a Miranda warning given on one criminal charge  _can_  be said to continue in force throughout an entire period of custody, the fact remains that my client was not properly Mirandized."

"I have the waiver right here, your honour!" Regan said.

"Officer Langdon's actions in falsely arresting my client, who had not committed the offence alleged and which Officer Langdon  _knew_  he had not committed, can not be construed to be the actions of a police officer acting in pursuit of his duties," Melnick said.

"It has never been held that a Miranda warning has to be given by a police officer – in fact, on occasions the police have reason to resort to a translator." McCoy pointed out.

"Acting as an agent of the police, in their presence. That doesn't mean a Miranda warning given by a private citizen prior to arrest relieves police of the requirement to Mirandize before custodial questioning.  _Or_ , your honour, that a defendant can be said to have waived Miranda because of remarks made to or documents signed for a private citizen." Melnick was hitting her stride, talking too quickly for even McCoy to interrupt, although he made several attempts to. "If Officer Langdon was not acting as a police officer when he Mirandized my client and took him into custody, then his Miranda warning has no effect. In addition – " Melnick went on, holding up a hand as McCoy opened his mouth to speak, " - in addition, given the arrest was false and known to be false, and my client was held on those false grounds, it cannot be held to be an ongoing custodial situation within the meaning of  _Dickerson_. The situation is more analogous to a kidnapping. Now, your Honour, can we really in all good conscience say that a man who is kidnapped and held unlawfully can then be questioned by police _while still unlawfully held_ with no consideration for his rights?"

"Oh, come on!" McCoy said.

"Is that a legal argument, counsellor?" Melnick asked.

"Your honour, it's not reasonable to hold that police officers must satisfy themselves of the bona fides of prior arrests or convictions before questioning a suspect in a custodial situation," Regan said quickly, since McCoy looked like he was going to blow a gasket rather than make a legal argument. "Surely, it is reasonable that police officers rely in good faith on the actions and judgement of their fellow officers and of the justice system."

"I agree, Ms Markham," Pongracic said, and to Melnick, "You're drawing a long bow on that one, counsellor."

"Thank you, your honour," McCoy said, with a sharp glance at Regan that she interpreted as  _Don't interrupt your betters again, rookie_.

"Don't thank me yet," the judge warned. "While I am not willing to put Mr Forrest in the position of kidnap victim entitled to rescue by Detectives Green and Briscoe, I do find Ms Melnick's argument as to the nature of Officer Langdon's acts compelling. He was not acting in his capacity as a police officer, sworn to uphold and enforce the law: he was acting as a thug and bully abusing his position. And there can be no doubt that Mr Forrest was aware of this, as no-one was in a better position that he to apprehend he had not committed the offences for which he was arrested. Are we to expect that in these circumstances, he should be able to make a fair and free Miranda decision? No."

"Your honour!" McCoy protested.

"Confession is  _out_ , Mr McCoy." Pongracic was implacable.

"In that case, I move for an immediate dismissal of the charges," Melnick said. "There is no physical evidence to connect my client to the crime, no eyewitnesses. The only thing Mr McCoy has is the confession."

" Mr Downer was shot with your client's gun!" McCoy said.

"With his  _mother's_ gun," Melnick corrected. "Stolen from her two years ago."

"What about it, Mr McCoy?" the judge asked. "Can you make the case without the confession?"

McCoy looked from Melnick to Pongracic and back. "I will, your honour. But I'll need a little more time."

"How much?"

"Two weeks," McCoy said.

"My client has the right to a speedy trial, your honour…" Melnick said.

"Don't push your luck, Ms Melnick, two weeks can hardly be considered an extensive delay given the current state of the courts."

"Then we want to revisit bail," Melnick said.

"The defendant remains the same flight risk he was when arraigned!" McCoy said.

"But you can't present me with one piece of evidence to tie him to the crime," Pongracic pointed out. "Bail is set at one hundred thousand, cash or bond. See you in two weeks, counsellors."


	15. Motion To Dismiss

_Supreme Court Criminal Term NY_

_111 Centre St_

_1 pm Thursday 5th October_

* * *

 

McCoy stalked out of Pongracic's chambers, Regan having to stretch her legs to keep up. His semi-permanent frown was well in evidence, his jaw set. Regan tried to think of ways in which she could have seen Melnick's stunt coming and headed it off, but she couldn't bring any relevant case law to mind – at least, none that supported their side of the argument. Despite their loss, and the damage it would do to their case, just watching the cut-and-thrust of the legal debate between Melnick and McCoy had left her heart pounding with excitement.  _And he did that after a fifteen minute briefing from me!_  she thought, exhilarated.

"Will we appeal?" she ventured to ask McCoy as he strode along the courthouse corridor.

"Do you think Pongracic committed reversible error?" McCoy snapped.

"No," Regan said, although it galled her to admit it. "I'm sorry, Mr McCoy, I had the Miranda waiver, it never even  _occurred_ to me to think it wouldn't stand up."

" _That's_ what you're sorry about?" McCoy said harshly, and Regan looked at him, puzzled. Her bemusement seemed to anger him further. "My god, are these the ethics they teach at the University of Washington these days? Or did you fail that class as well?"

"Mr McCoy – " Regan started, wrong-footed by his reference to her less-than-stellar academic record. She had come to expect McCoy to be foul-tempered and easily angered, but she had not thought him capable of gratuitous cruelty. McCoy seized her by the elbow and pushed her out of the flow of foot-traffic to the relative privacy of the windows.

"You lied to Pongracic," he said, voice too low for anyone else to hear but still vibrating with outrage.

"I did not!" Regan said.

McCoy's grip on her arm tightened and he leaned very close to her. "I saw Danielle's reaction. She  _knew_  you were lying. Not suspected.  _Knew._ "

"Maybe _her client_  lied to  _her_!" Regan said.

"What do you think is more likely? A murderer confesses with no expectation of consideration, or an incompetent ADA covers up her mistake with  _perjury_?" He let go of her, stepped back. "Clear out your desk. Have your files ready for me by six. Tomorrow, you go back to Fraud. Seems more your kind of thing."

With that, he stalked away without a backward glance. Regan stared after him. As he disappeared into the courtroom the reality of the last few moments hit her and she reached out to the windowsill to steady herself.  _Incompetent_   _… fail … lied … clear out your desk …_ For a second Regan thought she was in real danger of throwing up right there in the courthouse corridor.

But she was, until six pm, still Jack McCoy's ADA, and Jack McCoy's ADA did not vomit on her shoes because of a little tongue-lashing – even if that tongue-lashing came from Jack McCoy himself.

Regan squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She had work to do. Until 6 pm, she had work to do.


	16. Redirect

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_10th Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_6 pm Thursday 5th October 2006_

* * *

 

Ignoring writer's cramp and a threatening headache, Jack McCoy drove the pen across the yellow pages of his legal pad, his hand barely able to keep pace with his thoughts.  _False alibi … clear motive …_ the pieces of his summation fell into place, as they always did. But the jury would want something more to convict fresh-faced Emma Arrediatton. They would need to be convinced that sending her to jail was the  _right thing to do_.

At the thought, McCoy's pen stopped, and he sighed. Of course it was the right thing to do.

Emma Arrediatton had gone to a pill-swapping party with a bottle of her father's Vicodin. In the hope of ending the night in the bed of her high-school crush, she had encouraged his girlfriend to take four times the safe dose of the drug, expecting the other woman to spend the night comatose and therefore no competition. When her rival had ended up dead, Arrediatton had persuaded her father to give her an alibi.

McCoy was not convinced she had not known the Vicodin would be lethal, but he couldn't prove it. Regardless, she had known her conduct was dangerous, and hadn't cared.

McCoy was sending her to jail.

_If I can just persuade the jury …_  he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recapture the train of thought he had been following before irritation at the general denseness of juries had distracted him.

When he opened them again Regan Markham was standing in the doorway, clutching two file-boxes on top of each other.

"You said six, Mr McCoy," she said.

"Yes. Put them over there," he said, indicating the table. Markham did, then turned back to face him. Her eyes and nose were slightly red and McCoy could tell she had been crying. He felt momentarily guilty, but brushed it aside, resurrecting the righteous anger that had fuelled him at the courthouse.  _She should have been crying,_  he thought,  _she's done something worth crying over._

"I've made notes on all pending actions," Markham said. "Do you want me to go through them?"

"I've been reading to myself for  _years_  now," McCoy said tartly.

"The files are ordered alphabetically but there is a list in the top box of pending actions by due date."

"Good." McCoy waited for her to leave. When she didn't move he looked pointedly down at his draft summation, and then back to her. "Was there something else?"

"Mr McCoy, I didn't lie to the judge today," Markham said. She seemed very composed and McCoy guessed she had rehearsed what she was going to say. "Lionel Forrest  _never_  said the DA's Office couldn't use the confession if the plea wasn't in force. And I  _never_  told him that I wouldn't use it."

"What  _did_ he say?" McCoy asked. He wanted to kick her out of his office and go back to his summation. He wanted to add Regan Markham to the list of ADAs who couldn't or wouldn't sit in Jack McCoy's second chair, and he needed to stay angry at her to do that.  _But_  … he couldn't deny her a hearing.  _I may have become a harsh judge, but I will not be a capricious one._

Markham took a piece of paper from her pocket and read from it. "Markham: if you tell us what happened, maybe we can work something out. Forrest: It was self defence. Green: So you shot him. Forrest: Yes. In self-defence. Green: You have to tell us the truth or we can't help you. We know you shot him in the back. Forrest: You don't know anything. Green: Why don't you tell us. Forrest: What are you going to do for me. Markham: Murder Two if I like what I hear." She put the paper back in her pocket. "Detectives Briscoe and Green's recollection accords with mine."

"And what do you think Mr Forrest understood by that conversation?" McCoy asked.

"I can't be responsible for what Mr Forrest understood," Markham said. "And Judge Pongracic didn't ask me what Mr Forrest understood."

"That's a fine hair to split!" McCoy snapped. "There's the  _letter_  of the law and the  _spirit_  of it, Ms Markham."

"And there's the man who's out on bail after shooting someone four times in the back," Markham said. "Because of the  _letter_ of the law. Look, Mr McCoy, Forrest didn't have a lawyer present and if he had done, I'm sure the confession would have been conditional. But he'd signed a waiver. The police and prosecution are not responsible for protecting a defendant from his own arrogance and idiocy." Markham leaned forward, emphasising her points with a raised forefinger, clearly forgetting to be self-conscious as she made her case. "He may very well have not confessed if he knew we could use it if he rejected the plea bargain –  _but he rejected counsel_. He  _chose_  to remain ignorant of the law."

"So it's your position that so long as you speak the literal truth you're not responsible for how it's understood?" McCoy asked.

"Were you responsible for what Julian Preuss understood?" Markham fired back.

"Yes, Ms Markham, as it turned out, I was. It was just that someone else took the consequences." McCoy said angrily.

'Then how about your testimony in the Harp case?" Markham said, moving on as smoothly as McCoy himself might have done when arguing case law in a judge's chamber. "Did you obey the letter or the spirit of the law that time, Mr McCoy?"

"Harp tried to coerce a deal out of the DA's office!" McCoy said. "He was a cop-killer and a triple murderer."

"Either the ends justify the means or they  _don't_ , Mr McCoy," Markham said, stabbing one finger down at the desk. "And maybe you and I won't see eye-to-eye on it. And maybe you'll always think your circumstances are more special than anybody else's.  _But I didn't lie to the judge_. You choose who you work with, I understand that. But I won't be called a liar."

McCoy looked at her. Markham held his gaze for longer than he expected before she looked down, shoulders slumping a little as the wind went out of her sails. "Well, anyway, that's what I wanted to say," she said quietly, and turned to leave.

"Don't point," McCoy said, and Markham turned, looking puzzled. "Juries don't like it. Use your whole hand." He demonstrated.

"Okay," Markham said. "I'll remember."

"The Preuss case was a bad example – but well done for raising Harp. Did Arthur tell you about it?"

"No, I found it on Lexis-nexus." When McCoy raised his eyebrows, she shrugged. "McCoy, ethics, questioned."

'That's a big reading list," McCoy said dryly.

"I wouldn't like to comment," Markham said equally dryly and McCoy surprised himself by laughing.

"All right," he conceded, picking up his pen. "Oh, and you used 'but' to start two sentences in your peroration – including the last. That's a bad habit. Break it."

"Okay," Markham said. "Anything else?"

"Yes," McCoy said, not looking up from his draft summation. "Don't leave your boxes on my desk all night. Some of those cases have action pending tomorrow."

Silence. He began to write, wondering if she would decide he wasn't worth the trouble, wondering if that's what he would prefer.

Markham cleared her throat. "Yes, Mr McCoy," she said, and he heard her pick up the boxes and move to the door.

"Oh, and Regan?" he said before she reached it. "Will you for chrissakes call me Jack?"

"Okay," Regan said. "Okay – Jack."

McCoy listened to her footsteps fade away, pen flying across the paper.  _I am not asking you to send Ms Arrediatton to jail because she is a cold-hearted murderess,_ he wrote.  _Emma Arrediatton says she did not mean to kill Marjorie Petchey when she gave her twelve Vicodin tablets – four times the amount indicated as dangerous on the bottle Emma Arrediatton took the pills from. And we have no proof that she is not telling the truth. You can believe her if you want. But, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Emma Arrediatton is not on trial for deliberate murder. She is on trial for the cold, callous, selfish disregard for the consequences of her actions she showed when, in order to sideline a rival, she administered a dangerous dose of a dangerous drug._

Smiling to himself, McCoy turned to a new page.


	17. Rainy Days And Mondays ...

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_10th Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_8.30 am Thursday 19th October 2006_

* * *

 

The rain rattled against the windows and dimmed the daylight to gloom. As Regan Markham rapped on McCoy's office door, he reached out to switch on the reading light he normally only used at night.

"Got a minute?" she asked.

"One," he said, taking a gulp of coffee. "Sentencing in Arrediatton in thirty minutes."

"Seven felony arraignments," she said, waving the folders at him. "Five ready for the grand jury, one that I think  _can_ be, one I think we should plead."

"What is it?" McCoy drained his coffee mug and got up.

"Unlawful grand jury disclosure. This guy is basically an idiot and he already fully realises that. I've never seen a human being in more abject terror in my life. If we offer him crim-contempt in the second, he'll jump at the change to take a misdemeanour."

"How's the case?" McCoy asked, turning up his collar to put on his tie.

"Solid. We can nail him. But honestly, Jack, he isn't worth it."

"Alright. Plead him out. How are you going with the Rosario material for Hewsen Chai?" McCoy put on his suit jacket.

"Making progress." Regan said. "Lionel Forrest, now, is another matter."

"Damn it, Regan! We're in court on Monday and you know Danielle will move dismissal  _in limine_."

"I'll try Green and Briscoe again, but …" Regan shrugged. "Plea?"

"Danielle will never take a plea with this case." McCoy grabbed his umbrella and headed for the door. "Find me something!"

Regan followed him to the elevator. "Even if we do, he'll change his plea to self-defence."

"Juries don't like that," McCoy said, stepping into the elevator. "One minute it's 'I didn't do it, I wasn't there' and the next 'I did do it but I had to'. Juries like to know the why as well as the what. Juries think – "

Whatever juries thought was lost as the lift doors closed. Regan thought she could probably guess.

 _Find me something_. They could prove Lionel Forrest  _could have had_  access to the means, that he  _could have had_  a motive, that he  _might have had_ the opportunity. If she was being honest, Regan had to admit she wouldn't have proceeded with the complaint brought to her on this evidence.

But the media interest in Otis Langdon had distorted everything. The DA didn't want to drop the Forrest case because that would look like Melnick's allegation of prosecutorial prejudice were accurate – and most likely Pongracic would rule that jeopardy had already attached, anyway.

"Ms Markham," Colleen Petraky said, startling Regan from her reverie. "Aren't you due in arraignment?"

"Shit!" Regan said, seeing the time displayed on the clock. "Thanks, Colleen!"

She grabbed her umbrella and her briefcase and hustled into the lift.


	18. ... Always Bring Me Down

_Squad room_

_27 Precinct_

_10 Police Square, New York,_

_11.45 am Thursday 19th October 2006_

* * *

 

"Someone's gonna kill somebody," Briscoe said, leaning back in his chair. "And then we're gonna have to go investigate it. I can feel it already."

"We  _are_  homicide detectives," Green pointed out.

"Is there a way to be a homicide detective only when it isn't raining?"

"Sure," said Van Buren from behind him. "If you want to be a homicide detective who only gets paid when the sun is shining."

"On second thoughts …" Briscoe said.

"There you go," Van Buren said dryly. "Tell me about Lionel Forrest."

Briscoe shrugged. "We got nothing more today than we had yesterday or the day before. Lieu, we got lucky with the confession. We never had a case."

"On Monday Mr McCoy is going to be standing up in court and he's gonna  _have_  to have a case. I've had three calls from ADA Markham this morning and I'm getting the feeling her feet are being held to the fire.  _Find_  something. Find the gun. Put Forrest in the park. Prove Forrest and Downer knew each other."

"How?" Green objected. "We've run down every  _possible_  lead."

"Associates of both men, solicitation busts in the park, divers in the river," Briscoe said. "CSU searched the park for shell-casings, we ran down every prior cell-mate of Forrest  _and_  Downer … he did it, we know he did it, he knows we know he did it, but we can't prove it."

"All right," Van Buren said. "Why don't you go about it from another direction? Forrest was picked up by Langdon two days after the murder. Do we know what he was doing between the murder and the arrest?" When both men shook their heads, she planted her hands on her hips. "Well  _find out_. Start with the arrest report."

"It's pretty sketchy, LT" Green said.

"Then start with the arresting officer. Go talk to Otis Langdon."

"He's on administrative leave pending the inquiry," Briscoe pointed out. "And are we sure he's going to want to talk to us?"

"Call Markham and tell her you want to threaten Langdon with a material witness warrant. See what she can do for you."

When Briscoe called the DA's Office Regan Markham was eager to help them threaten Langdon, so eager she volunteered to come along while they interviewed him. Briscoe and Green picked her up in an unmarked outside One Hogan Place.

"I don't need to tell you guys how much we need this to give us something," she said, brushing raindrops from her hair.

" Jack McCoy on your case?" Briscoe asked as Green pulled out into the traffic.

"He's a hard-ass with a capital H and a capital A-double-S," Markham said.

"That sounds about right," Green said.

"I can't blame him on this one, though, I fucked up royally with Forrest," Markham said.

"Yeah, and Jack McCoy never misses a chance to remind you," Briscoe said.

"You've known him long?" Markham asked.

"Since he got the EADA gig," Briscoe said.

"So you must know him pretty well," Markham said, transparently fishing for information.

"It's not like we're friends or anything," Briscoe said, thinking  _'Friends'_   _isn't the word for it. I don't think there **is**  a word for it. Person you've shared some of the worst moments of your life – of  **their** life –with. Person who has been in hospital corridors with you when it really matters._

"Does Jack McCoy  _have_ friends?" Markham asked.

Briscoe glanced at Green just as Green looked at him. They had worked together more than long enough to come to mutual silent agreement in that instant:  _don't get into it, not now._

"So what do you know about Langdon?" Green asked.

"Just what it says in the files. He looks like Joe Average from the paper."

"Joe Average missed out on sensitivity training," Briscoe said. "Over at the fifth everybody's remembering his little quirks all of a sudden. You know, the jokes nobody thought to object to last month?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Markham said. "Nobody wants to look like a limpdick in front of the rest of the squad. Do you know what else I know, though? If somebody had taken that chance, maybe Jenny Walker would be meeting her girlfriend for lunch right now."

They rode in silence for a while, until Markham cleared her throat. "Sorry," she said. "I guess I have been out of blue for too long."

"How long were you in the bag?" Briscoe asked.

"Sorry?" Markham said.

"In the bag – in uniform."

"Haven't heard that before – I thought you were commenting on my drinking habits." Markham said. "In Seattle we called it paperback."

"Why?" Green asked.

"Tactical Response were hard-cover, detectives were plain brown wrapper. Ordinary cops in patrol - paper backs," Markham explained. "I was paper back more than ten years."

"Why'd'you quit?" Green asked.

"Got shot," Markham said tersely.

"Yeah, snap," said Green. "I didn't quit, though."

"You think about it?" Markham asked.

"Once or twice," Green said. "Maybe if I'd had a law degree I would have."

"Indoor work, no heavy lifting," Markham agreed, and all three of them laughed. For a moment they were three cops in a car.

"You know, I had this case," Briscoe said, "a few years back. There was a cop married to a cop, and he was whaling on her. How do you get your husband arrested by his buddies? In the end her partner stepped in."

"Took him in?" Markham asked.

"Shot him dead," Briscoe said.

Green whistled. "You never told me  _that_ story."

"It was a hard case to break. Nobody would climb over the blue wall to speak a bad word about the dead cop, the cop who killed the dead cop, or the cops who were covering for the cop who killed the dead cop." Briscoe said.

"You got him in the end?" Markham asked.

"Yeah. Now there's a cop in Sing-sing and another in the ground because nobody was willing to bust a wife-beater in blue. So I know what you mean about Langdon and Walker. Is this the place?"

"Number 30, this is it," Green said, pulling up outside a typical row-house, plastic flamingos on the handkerchief of lawn.

Briscoe let Green lead the way up the path, Markham bringing up the rear. Green had to knock twice before the door was opened.

"Yeah?" Otis Langdon was a big man, his bald head showing traces of stubble and his tracksuit pants showing traces of food spills.

"Otis Langdon? I'm Detective Ed Green and this is my partner Detective Lennie Briscoe, and Assistant District Attorney Markham. We'd like to talk to you about an arrest you made – Lionel Forrest."

"What about it?" Langdon made no move to let them in.

"We like him for a murder but we can't put him at the scene. Can we come in and talk to you about the arrest?"

"I'm not ready for company," Langdon said.

"Trust me, we don't mind," Briscoe said, moving closer to the door, him and Green together crowding Langdon.

"Yeah, all right, I guess," Langdon said, and stepped back.

"Tell us about Lionel Forrest," Green said, stepping into the house and following Langdon down the hall, Briscoe behind him, Markham last.

"What do you want to know? He's a faggot whore," Langdon said. "Peddles his ass down Wagner Park."

"You arrested him for assault police resist arrest," Briscoe said. "Tell us about that."

"Maybe I should talk to my police association lawyer," Langdon said.

"We don't care about the bogus bust," Green said. "We like this guy for a murder and we need you to help us make it stick."

"What do you need me to say?" Langdon asked, throwing himself down in a tattered green vinyl recliner. Briscoe thought about sitting down on the couch to make it all more friendly, thought twice when he saw the state of the upholstery. Langdon clearly wasn't using his administrative leave to catch up on the housework.  _Probably thinks only gay men vacuum_ , Briscoe thought.

"We need you to tell us the truth," Green said. Briscoe glanced at Markham to see if she wanted to jump in, but she seemed to be studying the carpet.

"I want immunity," Langdon said. "I'm not stupid. You got an ADA here, I don't want nothing I say turning up at my hearing later."

Briscoe and Green both turned to Markham, waiting, but she had taken a piece of paper out of her briefcase and was looking from that to the floor and back again.

"Uh, Miss Markham?" Green said.

"Detective," Markham said. "Would you say this is plain view?"

Briscoe took a step towards her, looked down at the pile of old newspapers she was looking at. "Sure."

"Hey!" Langdon said, heaving himself to his feet. "You can't go through my stuff!"

"I'm not," Markham said. "It's plain view." She bent down and picked one of the papers up. "Look at this, Detective."

"Hey!" Langdon started towards Markham and Green put his hand on the other man's chest.

"Take it easy," Green said, and it was a threat.

Briscoe looked at the newspaper Markham was holding. The front page had been cut up. In places whole blocks of text were missing, in other places just single words.

"This is a copy of an anonymous letter received by Serena Southerlyn on Wednesday 21 September," Markham said. "'Bitch dyke whore'," she read, pointing to the missing 'B' from 'business', the missing 'I' from 'integrity', and so on. Briscoe nodded, and as Markham kept reading he matched the gaps in the paper to the rest of contents of the letter. When she finished she looked at Briscoe, then across the room at Langdon. "I consider that probable cause for an arrest, Detectives."

"Bullshit!" Langdon said. "Holes in a newspaper? That means nothing!"

"But a forensic match of the DNA on the original letter to you,  _Mister_  Langdon," Markham said, "will mean a great deal. Detectives, arrest this man for harassment in the first degree. And – "

"Let me guess," Briscoe said. "Make sure we read him every one of his rights?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case Lennie refers to is "Shield", episode 17 of season 9


	19. World Of Hurt

_Interview Room_

_27th Precinct_

_10 Police Square, New York_

_4.30 pm Thursday 19th October 2006_

* * *

 

"Listen to me very carefully, Officer Langdon," Jack McCoy said. "You do not want to make me your enemy."

Regan Markham moved a little closer to the glass viewing window to make sure she didn't miss anything. She heard Lieutenant Van Buren, beside her, chuckle softly – whether at McCoy's tactics, or Regan's eagerness, Regan wasn't sure.

McCoy had not sat down at the table opposite Langdon, or leaned across it. He hadn't even gone very far into the room. He had taken a step inside, stopped, one hand in his pants pocket, and paused. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, conversational.

"Listen to me very carefully, Officer Langdon," he said. "You do not want to make me your enemy."

"This is a bullshit misdemeanour charge," Langdon said. "It's a fucking fine. You want me to flush my career down the toilet to dodge this bullshit? Screw you!"

" Serena Southerlyn was an ADA in my office for three years," McCoy said, still quiet. "She worked all the hours of the day and night finishing the job the police start: locking up criminals. Like all prosecutors, she made enemies. Once she walked up to a man with a gun and persuaded him to let his hostage go – and then she made sure he got convicted, at the risk of her own career." McCoy took a few steps forward, rested one hand on the back of the chair opposite Langdon, fingers idly caressing the wood. "You can be absolutely certain that no matter what happens in this room I will hang that anonymous letter around your neck like an albatross." His hand tightened on the chair, knuckles white, and for the first time he looked directly at Langdon. "Not to mention the self-evident fact that Serena Southerlyn deserved  _at the very least_  as much consideration as any member of the public being stalked, harassed and intimidated. Instead, you buried her complaint and put a  _road-block_  in front of any investigation. As a result, a woman  _died_ , Officer Langdon. Don't think for a  _minute_  that I won't be offering the benefits of my considerable prosecutorial experience to the IAB." McCoy jerked the chair out from the table and sat down. "So let's talk about what you  _can_  do for yourself. How you can spare yourself at least  _some_  of the world of pain you're about to be in."

" Jesus, he's good," Regan breathed. Van Buren patted her arm.

"Be careful," the lieutenant warned. Regan was about to ask her what she meant when Langdon spoke.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to tell me exactly what happened when you arrested Lionel Forrest. And in exchange, I will leave the question of that arrest to police disciplinary procedures and not press criminal charges."

"That doesn't sound like much," Langdon said.

"Believe me," McCoy said, and his tone was as cold and hard as a front-rimed road, "it's the best offer you're going to get. And it's good for twenty seconds."

Regan watched, so tense she could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, as Langdon considered the threat McCoy had wrapped up in his 'offer', and McCoy sat motionless, watching and waiting. The tension drew tighter and tighter until McCoy lifted his arm to look at his watch and opened his mouth to speak.

"All right!" Langdon said. "All-fucking-right!"

"Detectives?" McCoy said. Behind Regan, she heard Green and Briscoe moving to the interview room door. She herself could not have moved or looked away from the viewing window if she'd been asked. She stood watching until Langdon started detailing his decision to arrest Lionel Forrest 'because the little faggot was always giving me the shits with his hotpants and high heels', and McCoy left Green and Briscoe to take his statement.

"You got him," she said to McCoy as he closed the door to the interview room behind him.

"Ticking clock," McCoy said absently. "Lieutenant, can you get someone to work over Serena's complaints? Let's see if there's anything there that doesn't trace back to either Conroy or Langdon."

"Oh, you going to get Police Plaza to authorise the overtime?" Van Buren asked.

McCoy ran his hand over his face, shrugged wearily. "Fine. Get the record of Langdon's interview across to Ms Markham as soon as you can. Regan? How long will it take you to cross-check the complaints?"

"I'll start as soon as I get the paper," Regan promised, already feeling tired at the prospect.

"I  _can_ leave your detectives to follow up any leads on Forrest that Langdon give them?" McCoy asked Van Buren tartly.

"Well, we might get a bit lost without you to tell us how to do our jobs, Mr McCoy," Van Buren drawled, "but we'll struggle on somehow."

Regan tensed a little, waiting for McCoy's acidic retort, but instead the prosecutor grinned ruefully, touched Van Buren's arm in something close to an apology. Van Buren covered his hand with her own before he could pull away. "Jack …" she said so softly Regan could hardly hear her, "Come by for a coffee some time."

"Yeah, sure," McCoy said. "If I get time. Regan, you coming back to Hogan Place?"

"Uh-huh," Regan said. "Want to split a cab?"

"Great minds," McCoy said.

He was quiet, pre-occupied, on the way back to Hogan Place and Regan held her peace, not wanting to disturb him. She was almost startled when McCoy cleared his throat as they waited for the elevator.

"Lennie Briscoe said that was your pickup at Langdon's house, the newspapers."

"They were on the floor," Regan explained. "Plain view."

"I don't doubt it," McCoy reassured her. "I just meant – good catch."

Regan would have liked to take that with cool professionalism, but she couldn't suppress her smile. "Thank you," she said.

"Keep on top of Green and Briscoe – make sure they keep you updated." McCoy said as the elevator reached the 10th floor and they got out.

"I will."

"And make sure you clear your calendar for Monday," McCoy said. "The second chair on Forrest is still empty. Think you can sit in it?"

"Second chair a murder?" Regan said.

"You don't want to?" About to go into his office, McCoy turned back in the doorway, frowning.

"No, I want to!" Regan said. "I absolutely want to. But – shouldn't you have someone more experienced for a murder trial? With this kind of publicity?"

"No-one's experienced until they get experience," McCoy said. "And besides, someone recently pointed out to me that I get to choose who I work with."

"Okay," Regan said. "Okay."

"Good," McCoy said. "Then I guess – as they say in the classics – I'll see you in court."


	20. Circumstantial Evidence

_10th Floor_

_District Attorney's Office_

_One Hogan Place_

_6 pm Friday 20th October 2006_

* * *

 

"Regan!" Jack McCoy yelled from the doorway of his office. When she rolled her chair back to see through her doorway, he beckoned impatiently and went back to his desk.

" Lionel Forrest?" Regan asked, sitting down across from him.

"Talk to me," McCoy said.

"Good news or bad news?" Regan asked.

"Cheer me up." McCoy said. "This file is pretty light."

"Langdon came clean about picking up Forrest. His partner has apparently stopped going to his meetings. Partner went into a bar looking for a hair of his dog – Langdon took the opportunity to cruise up towards Wagner Park. He spotted Forrest, who he has a long standing grudge against since Forrest beat a solicitation charge last year, and took the opportunity for a little pay back. Tossed him in the back the cruiser, went back and picked up the partner, you know the rest."

"And that's good news?" McCoy said. He took out his cufflinks, dropped them in his top drawer, and started rolling up his sleeves.

" Lieutenant Van Buren pulled out all the stops for us," Regan said. "Once they got a better fix on Forrest's haunts from Langdon – not the ones in the arrest report – she had a dozen uniforms out today with Briscoe and Green searching for any evidence."

"Tell me they found a gun?"

"Shell casings." Regan shrugged. "They're at forensics. Hopefully Forrest's fingerprints will turn up on the casings. And also, they found a plastic garbage bag full of wallets stashed in the garden of an empty house just near the park exit where Langdon picked Forrest up."

"Downer's swag? That's just going to help Danielle with her defence."

"Only if her defence is self-defence," Regan said. "She's still at

'it wasn't me'. We're getting closer to putting the two men together in the park with a gun in Forrest's hand."

"'Closer' isn't close," McCoy said. "Was one of the wallets Forrest's?"

"Not on the contents. Maybe something will turn up in forensics."

"Before Monday morning?" McCoy asked, and Regan shook her head. "No, I didn't think so. Dammit, Regan!"

"I'm sorry, Jack," Regan said, and the genuine contrition in her voice gave McCoy pause.

"It's not your fault the police can't make the case," he said.

"It's my fault we lost the confession. I should have Mirandized him. Even without knowing the problem with Langdon. I  _knew_  custodial continuity of Miranda wasn't finally determined.  _I should have made sure_." Regan said, leaning forward earnestly.

"Yeah, you should have," McCoy said. "And you will next time, right?"

"For sure!"

McCoy suppressed a smile at the enthusiasm of her agreement.  _Was I ever that green? Hard to believe._

_She'll season. They all do._

_Except Alex never will. Nor Claire. Or Ricci. Or Cabot._

" Jack?" Regan said, and McCoy realised he was sitting silent, looking into space, gazing into memory. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

"What are you going to do on Monday? Can you make the case?"

"I doubt it," McCoy said.

"Ask for an adjournment?" Regan asked.

"On the grounds that I can't make the case?" McCoy snorted. "Hardly! Danielle will move to dismiss and Pongracic will take it. And while I remember, make sure you meet the Rosario requirements on what the cops turned up. Don't give Danielle even the slightest crack in the window of procedural impropriety. She'll crank it open wide enough to drive a truck through – all the way to the appeals court."

"The papers are on my desk and the courier is due at seven. So what are you going to do? On Monday?"

"I'm going to make my circumstantial case. I'm going to try and persuade the jury to believe my story about the crime rather than Danielle's. And I'm going to do it as slowly as possible while hoping like hell forensics works wonders."


	21. Holding Pattern

_Supreme Court Criminal Term_

_Trial Part 62_

_111 Centre St_

_11.15 am Monday 23 October 2006_

* * *

 

"And what was the cause of death?" Jack McCoy asked – not for the first time.

Regan bit her lip and looked at her watch under the bar table. McCoy was clearly trying to spin out the proceedings to the lunch break. He had pushed the limits of the opening statement, without actually saying anything besides foreshadowing the circumstantial evidence. Regan had to admit he had made the evidence sound a lot more convincing than it actually was – but she was surprised he had not offered any motive to the jury.  _Juries like to know the why as well as the what_ …  _and we **know** the why, because even if we can't introduce the confession into evidence Forrest  **did**  make it. _But McCoy made no reference to motive, offered no motive for the jury to consider.

"Drowning," Elizabeth Rodgers said.

"So the gunshot wounds were not fatal?"

"Not immediately. At least two would have been fatal with in a few minutes of infliction, but Mr Downer went into the water and drowned before that could happen."

"So would you say he fell or was pushed into the water almost immediately after he was shot?"

"Yes."

"Did he drown  _because_ he had been shot?"

"Given that one of the bullets shattered his spine, his ability to swim would have been severely compromised," Rodgers said dryly.

"So let's be clear, Doctor," McCoy asked. " Mr Downer drowned  _because_  he was shot."

"Yes."

"So, the person who shot him was responsible for his death."

Rodgers took a breath and then clearly thought better of what she was going to say. Very deliberately, she folded her hands on the rail of the witness stand. "Yes," she said, in a tone that added  _you moron_.

"And could you tell the court what injuries were inflicted by these shots?" McCoy asked.

"Your Honour," Danielle Melnick said, rising to her feet, " Mr McCoy has canvassed this extensively already."

"I agree," Judge Pongracic said. "Do you have any  _new_  questions to ask this witness, Mr McCoy?"

McCoy paused, before finally conceding: "No, Your Honour."

" Ms Melnick, your witness," Pongracic said.

"I just have one question, Dr Rodgers. Does any of the evidence you have given to this court indicate  _who_ shot Peter Downer?"

"No," Rodger said.

"Thank you," Melnick said. "That's all."

"Do the People have any other witnesses?" Judge Pongracic asked. McCoy studied his papers, though Regan knew he could not help but know there were no more names on the list of People's witnesses. Surreptitiously, she slipped her cell phone open and checked to see if there were any text messages from Forensics or the 2-7 or from One Hogan Place.  _Nothing._  When McCoy looked hopefully at her, Regan shook her head slightly. " Mr McCoy?" Pongracic said testily.

"Your honour, the People are expecting notice from the Police Department about new forensic evidence," McCoy said.

"Approach, your Honour." Melnick snapped.

Regan strained to hear as Melnick and McCoy talked to the judge. Melnick seemed angry, probably making the point that introduction of new evidence at this point in the trial disadvantaged the defence and make a mockery of discovery. That was certainly the point Regan herself would have made in Melnick's place, but without much hope the judge would buy it. And from the look of Pongracic's face, Regan didn't think the judge  _was_ buying it.

Melnick threw up her hands and headed back to the bar table, McCoy following more slowly. Pongracic took her hand off the microphone and reached for her gravel. "We will adjourn for lunch until 12.30. And when we come back, Mr McCoy, the people had better be prepared to present their evidence or rest their case." She rapped the gavel down sharply.

Regan started to gather the prosecution's papers together but McCoy stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Leave it," he said. "Leave the papers with me. You have one hour to get  _something_  out of Forensics that will allow us to put this to bed.  _Go_."

Regan went.


	22. Colourful Metaphors

_Forensic Laboratory_

_Office of the Medical Examiner_

_520 First Avenue_

_11.50 Monday 23 October 2006_

* * *

 

"I have an hour," Regan said.

" Ms Markham, forensics isn't like a takeaway curry. You can't just whip it up to order. It's more like a soufflé. You can't hurry it." Julian Beck gave Regan a nervous smile. "And we've been backed up."

"I need the print results on the shell casings and the wallets from Wagner Park," Regan said. "And if I don't get them before the end of the lunch break, Jack McCoy is going to be standing in front of Judge Pongracic with his pants around his ankles and his wing-wang waving in the breeze."

"Okay," Beck said. "That's a colourful image."

"Uh-huh. So help me out, Julian. " Regan said. "Before my images get even more colourful. Have you even printed the shells? The wallets?"

"We dusted, we got some prints, but we haven't run them yet," Julian said. He got up and went across the lab to the big computer used exclusively for print matches. Regan followed him so closely she nearly trod on his heels. "We're really backed up, Ms Markham."

"I've got two names we're looking for a match on," Regan said. "How long would that take?"

"Well, not long, but strictly speaking, Ms Markham, we're not supposed to jump jobs up the list without an order from the lab supervisor."

"Do you need me to beg?" Regan asked. Beck laughed nervously. "No, seriously, Julian, do you need me to beg? Because I will. On my knees. It won't be pretty. But I'll do it, Julian, if it will help."

"No! Really, it's okay," Beck said. "I guess – you won't tell my boss?"

"I'll take the secret to the grave," Regan promised.

"Okay." Beck swallowed hard. "Okay. Let's see. What are those names?"

" Lionel Forrest," Regan said. " Peter Downer."

"Here we go," Beck said.

"How long is this going to take?" Regan asked.

"Against known prints? Not long. Here are your shell casing prints. Now, here's Forrest's prints. Let's see. The most likely match would be for the forefinger and the thumb. These prints are really partial. There's not enough to really give a match. I see one – two – three points of similarity here, which is a lot given how small the partials are, but not enough to really testify to."

"Dammit," Regan said. "Dammit!"

"Okay, let me get up the file of prints from the wallets. We got a lot off the wallets. Mostly, the same prints – I mean, on each wallet, because, you know, you take the wallet out of your pocket, open it up – "

"I get the picture," Regan said. "What about the rest?"

"Well, running them now against Peter Downer's prints – here's one, six point match. Here's another eight point match."

"Same wallet?"

"Different." Beck kept his eyes on the screen as the prints flicked past, considered and rejected by the computer's electronic brain. "Here's another. Is this what you need, Ms Markham?"

"It confirms the defence theory of the crime, not ours," Regan said.

"I'm sorry," Beck said. "Let's look at Forrest's prints on the wallets."

"Okay." Regan looked at her watch.  _Fifteen minutes left_. "Can you make the machine go faster?"

"It doesn't work that way," Beck said.

"I know, I'm sorry." Regan said. She bit her lip and stared at the computer screen as if the power of her gaze could speed it up.

"Here we go," Beck said. "Look at that. Eight point match on item 04."

"To Forrest ?" Regan asked.

"Yep," Beck said. "There's another. It's from item 06. And bingo – item 07. Oh, that's a beauty."

"Three matches on three different wallets from the bag the cops found in Wagner Park. Matches to Forrest as well as Downer," Regan said.

"Yes. Is that good?" Beck asked.

"Print all that out," Regan said, yanking out her cell phone. "You are coming to court, Julian."

"But I – " Beck began to protest.

" Jack McCoy. Pants. Ankles." Regan reminded him, then into the phone: " Jack? I'm on my way back with Julian Beck. You're going to love this."

 


	23. Theory Of The Crime

_Chambers of Judge Lisa Pongracic_

_Supreme Court Criminal Term NY_

_111 Centre St_

_12.45 pm Monday 23 October 2006_

* * *

 

"Your honour, this witness is not listed in the People's witness list. This is an ambush!" Danielle Melnick said.

"This evidence only just became available," McCoy said. " Mr Beck will testify that he only ran the relevant tests  _during the lunch hour._  My colleague ADA Markham can confirm that – she was present in the lab."

"And her word is her bond, we all know that," Danielle said sarcastically.

"What are you insinuating?" McCoy asked.

"Oh come on, Jack," Danielle said. "Let's not be coy. Ms Markham would say anything to make your case. She wouldn't be the first one of your second chairs to do that!"

"If you have a specific allegation to make about Ms Markham I suggest you make it to the Bar Council," McCoy said furiously. "And I look forward to seeing you in the hearing."

"I'm still here," Judge Pongracic said acidly.

"I'm sorry, your honour," Danielle said, turning back to the judge. "I just find the unscrupulous tactics of the District Attorney's office so outrageous – "

"As opposed to the unscrupulous tactics of defence attorneys?" Pongracic asked. "As a general principle, Ms Melnick, I agree with your complaint of ambush. However, I see no reason to doubt Mr McCoy's assertion that this evidence has only just become available to the prosecution. I note that you were informed on Friday that the police had recovered additional physical evidence."

"Physical evidence that they found as a result of a tip from the very officer whose false arrest of my client started all this, the officer under investigation – "

"Fruit of the poison tree?" Pongracic asked.

"Your honour!" McCoy protested. " Officer Langdon gave information to the police about the whereabouts and known haunts of Lionel Forrest. His status in this case is that of a witness. The reliability of his testimony is proven by its outcome."

"That's bootstrapping, Jack, and you know it," Danielle snapped.

"It would be if I was arguing for the validity of a contested warrant," McCoy said. "But in this case – "

"I agree, Ms Melnick. Have you got any more shots in the locker before I rule?"

"Only to tell you that if Mr McCoy decides to use this evidence to present a new theory of the crime I will give immediate notice of appeal."

"Nice try, Danielle, but I haven't presented  _any_  theory of the crime," McCoy said smugly.

"He's right again, Ms Melnick," Pongracic said. " Julian Beck's testimony is  _in_. Fingerprint evidence is  _in_. And Mr McCoy can present whatever theory of the crime he likes to the jury."

"Your honour!" Danielle said.

"Save it," Pongracic said. "Everybody here knows your client caught a break when Otis Langdon's behaviour hit the front page. Looks like his good luck ran out."

McCoy started to count as soon as the door to Pongracic's chambers closed behind them. He had reached ten when Danielle said: "What's on the table, Jack?"

"Murder One, twenty to life."

"That's not a deal!" Danielle said.

"It's what I'm prepared to offer," McCoy said blithely.

"You shouldn't get cocky, Jack," Danielle called after him as he strode towards the courtroom. "Over-confidence goes before a fall!"

McCoy pulled open the court room door, and gestured for Danielle to precede him. "I'm never  _over_ -confident," he said, smiling.

Regan was already at the bar table, looking tensely back towards the doors. She relaxed visibly when she saw him, obviously able to tell from his expression that the evidence was in.

He sat down next to her. "We've got him."

"Are you sure?" Regan asked. "Won't Melnick destroy the finger-print match on the shell-casings on cross? The best Beck could do was four points!"

"I don't care about the shell-casings," McCoy said.

"You don't?"

"We've got him on the wallets," McCoy said.

"Because his fingerprints were on Downer's swag? He stole them from Downer – theft was the motive?"

"Do you want me to tell you, or do you want to figure it out?" McCoy asked.

Before Regan could answer him the court officer announced the judge. They rose to their feet together. "Tell me," Regan whispered.

"Too late," McCoy said, and winked at her, enjoying her confusion. "Tell Briscoe I'm going to recall him."

As always, right before the pivotal moment in a trial, he was filled with nervous energy. Years of practice enabled him to hide it, to present the appearance of calm assurance to the jury, but between the possibility of victory and the danger of defeat McCoy felt like a sprinter waiting for the gun, more alive than at almost any other time. He sat poised, waiting for his cue to call Julian Beck to the stand, revelling in the familiar excitement.

As he rose to his feet and buttoned his jacket, it occurred to McCoy that it had been a while since he had felt this fizzing tension, since he had stood in a courtroom and wanted to be exactly where he was, fighting a case.

He didn't have time to examine that thought longer. Julian Beck was in the witness stand. McCoy took a few steps forward, turning a little as he did, stopping at that spot four feet in front of the bar table where he always stood to begin a witness examination.

" Mr Beck," he began, schooling his voice and expression to appropriate seriousness, "Please tell the court your full name and occupation."


	24. Closing Arguments

_Supreme Court_   _Criminal Term_

_Trial Part 62_

_111 Centre St_

_3.15 pm_   _Monday 23rd October 2006_

* * *

 

"Until proven guilty," Danielle Melnick said. She let the words hang in the air a moment. "Those three words are the most important thing you need to consider when you go into the jury room to consider your verdict. We hear these words all the time: in movies, on television, on court TV. They have become so familiar they are almost background noise. Innocent or guilty – such opposite concepts. Such a clear cut difference. Either innocent – or guilty."

Regan watched Melnick as she strolled slowly towards the jury, voice carefully modulated between warm and confiding, and authoritative. McCoy had said Melnick was capable of giving him a run for his money, and Regan could see why.

"But innocent until proven guilty is also about the  _evidence_. About the  _proof_  the prosecution brings to the court. The  _proof_  beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant has committed the crime. And in this case, the prosecution has brought no such proof," Melnick said. " Mr McCoy has presented what he would like you to  _think_  is proof. It's certainly proof of something. Mr McCoy can prove that Mr Downer is dead – but not that my client killed him. He can prove that Mr Downer was shot – but not who shot him." Melnick spread her hands wide. "So he has strung together a series of unrelated facts in the hope that he will, by sleight of hand, convince you to accept them as evidence. But you must remember – circumstances are not circumstantial evidence. And whatever Mr McCoy might want you to believe, his assortment of forensic circumstances is not evidence of murder. The People cannot prove their case. And the law says that if they cannot prove my client guilty, you must find him – not guilty."

As Melnick walked back to her seat, Regan waited for McCoy to leap to his feet and launch into his own summation, but he sat still, a faint smile on his face, toying with his pen. For a heart-stopping moment Regan thought he was lost in thought again, the way he sometimes seemed distracted in the office, but then McCoy stood up slowly, shaking his head.

" Ms Melnick has done her best to turn this into a referendum on fundamental legal principles. Well, that's her job. She's very good at it. And she has to turn this case into a debate on legal principles because she can't defend her clients  _on the facts_."

Regan watched McCoy intently as he paced along the front of the jury box. Like Melnick, he struck a note between conversation and authority – but where Melnick had spoken clearly and firmly, McCoy was casual, charming.

"Ms Melnick would like you to believe that this case is comes down to three words. But if you want this case wrapped up in a phrase, I have one I'd like you to consider: 'thieves quarrel'." One of the jurors nodded.  _He's got them_ , Regan thought, with a thump of excitement.

"Let's look at the evidence," McCoy went on. "Lionel Forrest had access to the murder weapon. There is a strong probability that he loaded the gun that shot Peter Downer. Peter Downer, who made the money he needed to buy drugs by robbing the clients of male prostitutes in Wagner Park. By robbing the clients of male prostitutes like Lionel Forrest. Lionel Forrest, whose fingerprints were all over the wallets of Peter Downer's victims – despite the fact that those wallets were stolen over several nights and were hidden some distance from the place Peter Downer was shot. Now, how can this have come to be? Very simply, ladies and gentlemen. Lionel Forrest was not one of Peter Downer's victims, as the defence tried to suggest. Lionel Forrest was Peter Downer's  _accomplice_."

On the last word, McCoy's voice strengthened, his posture straightened, and he stopped pacing slowly back and forth before the jury, but stood still, facing them, suddenly serious. "Lionel Forrest was Peter Downer's accomplice in their joint criminal enterprise of robbing the men who frequent Wagner Park in search of casual homosexual liaisons. And Lionel Forrest shot Peter Downer four times in the back in order to keep their ill-gotten gains to himself. The evidence leads us inescapably to that conclusion."

McCoy paused, gaze sweeping the jury box. Regan could see the jurors waiting anxiously to hear what McCoy would say next. Regan could sympathise – she too was on the edge of her seat, heart pounding, mouth dry. Her anticipation was mingled with an astonished admiration at the seemingly iron-clad case McCoy was weaving out of a few fragments of evidence and a handful of supposition.  _That's what he meant, "We've got him on the wallets_." Regan thought. She had seen Forrest's fingerprints as evidence he had been in contact with Downer – one more piece of circumstantial evidence. McCoy took the same fact and transformed it into a damning motive.  _God, he's good_.

"Ms Melnick is doing her best to confuse matters," McCoy said, a note of regret in his voice.  _More in sorrow than in anger at Melnick's efforts_ , Regan noted. _Attacking her directly might get the jury off-side_. McCoy shrugged slightly. "She is trying to present her client as a victim rather than a criminal. To persuade you that, since he was at one point arrested by a prejudiced police officer, he ought to get a free pass on any other offences he might have committed. To convince you that Mr Forrest is, at worst, an unfortunate male prostitute who was triply victimised: by society, by Mr Downer, and by the police. Well, I can't hold it against her – that's her job. But your job, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is to put aside the rhetoric and look at the facts. The fingerprints on the wallets. The ownership of the gun. The partial prints on the shell-casings.  _Look at the facts_. And convict."

Just before he turned back towards the bar table, McCoy gave a little nod to the jury, the slightest inclination of his head, a gesture of respect and solidarity from one colleague to another. Then he turned and walked back to his seat beside Regan.

As Pongracic began her charge to the jury, McCoy leaned towards Regan. "How many nodded back?" he whispered in her ear, his breath warm on her neck.

Regan turned away from the jury to whisper back: "Seven."

McCoy's expression didn't change, but Regan was close enough to see the muscles move along his jaw as he suppressed a smile. "We've got him," he said.

They both stood respectfully as the jury was taken out. As Forrest was led away by the court officers to wait for the verdict, Melnick picked up her briefcase and came across the aisle. "That offer still on the table, Jack?"

"Nope," McCoy said, smiling.

"You're a bastard, McCoy," Melnick said, and Regan thought she was only half joking.

"Do you think I should have taken the plea?" McCoy asked Regan as Melnick walked away.

"No," Regan said. "They'll convict. I don't know how you did it – I mean, I know how you did it, the summation was brilliant, I just don't know how you came up with it – " Aware she was almost babbling, she stumbled to a stop, blushing.

"You liked it," McCoy said, a laugh in his voice. Sure he was laughing at her, Regan felt her blush deepen, cheeks blazing with embarrassment.  _You could boil water on my head_ , she thought despairingly, eyes fixed on her hands white-knuckled on the handle of her briefcase. "Good. I was worried I'd gone too far."

Startled, Regan looked up, seeing no mockery in McCoy's expression. Perhaps his smile was prompted by amusement at her naiveté, but it held no malice. Regan relaxed a little.

"I'm such a rube," she said ruefully. "What's the sophisticated New York way to put it?"

"Who cares?" McCoy said. "If you really want to know, I'll try to find you a sophisticated New Yorker to ask. Come on, we've got time to grab a coffee before the verdict."

"How do you know?" Regan asked, following him out of the courtroom.

"Juries don't like to convict on big cases too fast," McCoy said. "It looks like they don't take the consequences seriously enough." He held the courtroom door for her, ushering her through with a hand on her back. "Left here."

Regan had to hurry to keep up with him as, full of energy, he strode down the courthouse steps and across the road to a tiny diner. The young black man behind the counter greeted him by name, and McCoy ordered coffees. "Did you get lunch?" he asked Regan. At the thought, her stomach growled and she shook her head. "Soup here's good," McCoy said.

"Sure," Regan said, and let him order for her. The thought of food, the realisation that the trial was effectively over – or at least the demands it made on her were – and the ebbing excitement from watching McCoy's summation all combined together to send a wave of exhaustion washing over her. She sat down hastily. McCoy was talking to the diner's owner, his voice a distant nonsense, and Regan leaned her head on her hand and closed her eyes. She realised McCoy was speaking to her only when he touched her arm to get her attention. "Sorry," she said quickly, sitting up straight again.

"Do you want some water?" McCoy asked again, and Regan noticed the glass in front of her.

"Thanks," she said. The water helped, and a few moments later her food arrived, which helped more. McCoy sat quietly as she made short work of the soup and bread. Setting her spoon aside and wiping her mouth with her napkin, she looked up to see him watching her.

"Better?" he asked, and Regan nodded. She braced herself for him to castigate her for her weakness, to tell her she was not up for the job. "Good. You were looking a little grey there for a minute. Pie's good here too. Want some?"

"Sure," Regan said again, surprised. McCoy signalled to the owner. " Mr McCoy, I –"

"When I was a very young, very green ADA," McCoy said, "and I was chasing promotion up the felony scale, I often found myself working through lunch. Sometimes I'd miss breakfast, too. One day I was in court, waiting for the judge, about ten minutes from having to get up and question my witness, and I realised my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't hold the papers I needed to tender to the court – 'People's 14, your honour.'" His impersonation of a pompous young prosecutor made Regan laugh. "I realised that the only thing I'd had to eat in the past thirty-six hours was the free peanuts the barman had given me with my scotch the night before."

"I know that story," Regan said. The pie arrived, and she dug in with a will.

"Lucky for me, my opposing counsel – an eager young defence lawyer I had crossed swords with in the past – saw I was in trouble. She came to my rescue with a chocolate bar from her purse."

"That was nice of her," Regan said.

" Danielle has always liked to fight fair," McCoy said.

"And who won the case?"

"I did," McCoy said. "That time. And it taught me the importance of remembering that the  _lawyer_  is as much part of the case as the witnesses and the evidence. They all need to be courtroom ready."

Regan scraped the last of her pie from the plate and washed it down with coffee. "I'm sorry," she said. "It won't happen again."

"You've been putting in some long hours," McCoy said. "Am I giving you more work than you can handle?"

"I can handle whatever you give me," Regan said instantly, and McCoy shook his head.

"I'm not your babysitter, Regan. I don't keep a log of what crosses your desk from the complaints room. I don't know what work the pre-trials are generating until you tell me. Manage your own workload. Go home on time occasionally." The rebuke was gentle, but clear.

"I work the same hours as you," Regan pointed out. "Maybe a bit less."

"You don't need to prove you can keep up with me," McCoy said. "It's not a competition. And if it was, I'd win."

"If it was a competition, I'd be tactful enough to let you," Regan said archly. McCoy laughed. Emboldened by his uncharacteristic friendliness, Regan asked: "You've know Danielle Melnick that long?"

"Since I arrived in New York," McCoy said.

"Defence and Prosecution," Regan said. "That's an odd couple."

" Danielle and I had a lot in common," McCoy said. "Our politics, our ideals."

"So she ends up trying to get murderers off and you end up top dog in the DA's office?"

"Well,  _I_  was going to change the system from within," McCoy said.

Regan laughed out loud. "Oh,  _come on_." she said.

"You don't believe me?" McCoy said with exaggerated outrage.

"You joined the New York DA's Office to bring down da man?" Regan scoffed.

"I decided to be a prosecutor because I believed I could serve the integrity of the legal system," McCoy said. "Or, that's what I told Danielle when she was busting my balls over it. And New York was a challenge, and a long way from where I grew up. What about you?"

"Me?"

"Why did you apply for a job here?" McCoy asked. Regan had a sudden insight into why witnesses often told McCoy truths they had planned to keep hidden. His voice was warm, his gaze penetrating. "You used to be a cop in Seattle, right?"

"Yeah." Regan looked down at her coffee cup, played with the sugar sachet. "I was a cop, but you know, the pay sucks. And New York – who doesn't want to come to New York?"

"Okay," McCoy said, accepting her evasion. Regan felt a pang of guilt. He had been unexpectedly kind, and she had repaid him with a rebuff.

"Jack," she said impulsively, as he took out his wallet and put some bills on the table. "I got shot." She'd said it already to Green and Briscoe, but somehow this was harder, maybe because McCoy was looking at her, maybe because he was McCoy. "That's why."

"I'm sorry," McCoy said. "You okay now?"

"Yeah," Regan said, thinking  _mostly_. She reached for her purse to add to the money on the table but McCoy shook his head. Regan picked up the sugar sachet instead, rolling it between her fingers, paying close attention to avoid having to see what expression might be on McCoy's face.  _Pity_?  _Curiosity? Excitement?_ None of them good options, none of them what she wanted to see on  _this_  man's face as she told  _this_  story. "I already had most of my law degree through night school. I thought the first time I went to court as a witness that it didn't look so hard."

McCoy laughed. "How does it look now?"

"Like indoor work with no heavy lifting," Regan said. "But you know, it wasn't about just being any old lawyer. I wanted to be a prosecutor. I arrested the bad guys, I wanted to lock them up. And after – there was some media coverage. Everyone knew I was 'the cop who got shot'. Maybe if I'd gone into property law … but in the law and order family? Seattle's a small town."

"And New York's a big city," McCoy said. Regan risked a look at him, saw nothing but friendly interest in his expression.

"On the other side of the country. Nobody says to me 'Hey, aren't you that cop who got shot?'" Regan said. "What they mostly say is 'Hey, where the hell have you been, McCoy said you'd be here half and hour ago.'" She shrugged. "Which is better. Sorta."

"I'll try to double book you a little less," McCoy said. "And speaking of – we should get back. I'll bet you ten bucks the jury will be back in fifteen minutes."

"No bet!" Regan said.

"All right, I bet you dinner that the jury will convict."

"No bet." Regan said firmly, following him out of the diner.


	25. Post Trial Conference

_Office of DA Arthur Branch_

_10th Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_6.30 pm Monday 23rd October 2006_

* * *

 

"Well, congratulations, Jack, once again you made bricks without straw," Arthur Branch said, pouring whiskey into a glass. "Young lady, can I offer you something?"

"You can offer her your congratulations as well, Arthur," McCoy said, accepting the glass from Branch. "I couldn't have made the case without her help." He sank down into the couch.

"Well, congratulations to you too, Miss Markham," Branch said. "What are you drinking?"

"Scotch and soda?"

"Where I come from we call that a sissy drink," Branch said.

"Where you come from they call their fathers 'Grandpa'," Regan said sweetly, and McCoy inhaled scotch, coughed until his eyes streamed.

"You've got spirit," Branch said. "I knew it was a good idea to hire you." McCoy knew him well enough to read the disapproval in Branch's tone. Regan saluted the DA with her glass and sat down next to McCoy.

"It's a good result all around, Arthur," McCoy said. "We got Forrest. Langdon will end up off the force. Hopefully the city will settle with Jenny Walker's parents."

"Southerlyn's representing them?" Branch asked.

"And she'll do so ably," McCoy said. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the back of the couch. Beside him, Regan sat uncomfortably upright on the edge of the couch, clearly not at ease. McCoy caught her eye and mouthed 'Relax', and winked at her. He was amused to see her blush, but she did settle a little further back in her seat.

"I knew I was doing her a favour," Branch said. "And I knew – "

"Let's not revisit that," McCoy said quickly. "Let's just drink to a job well done, and justice served."

"Justice served," Branch said, and raised his own glass. "Blind as she is."

The door opened, and Colleen Petraky stuck her head in. "Mr Branch? Your car is downstairs, and you really have to be getting into the elevator now. Hi, Mr McCoy."

"All right, Colleen, thank you," Branch said. "You two finish your drinks – I have some politics to play."

The door closed behind him and McCoy and Regan sat in silence for a moment.  _I should go home_ , McCoy thought, but the idea held no attraction. He had always firmly believed that a win deserved a celebration. Over the past summer, though, no courtroom verdict had felt like victory. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, McCoy felt the occasion deserved more than a solitary scotch in his office with the door closed and the light off.

"You hungry?" he asked Regan.

"I'm okay," she said absently, turning her glass slowly in her hands.

"I'm starved. Wanna come watch me eat?" McCoy gave her his best charming grin, but it was a wasted effort as Regan didn't look up.

"Do you think she is?" she said.

"Do I think who is what?"

"Do you think justice is blind?" Regan looked up at last, face serious. "Do you think she should be?"

"You understand the principle," McCoy said. "No fear, no favour. Regardless of colour or creed – of gender or age or wealth – all cases are weighed on their merits."

"The integrity of the legal system," Regan said, nodding. "But – Melnick getting that confession thrown out – I understand the principle. But  _he confessed_. And she had to know he confessed.  _He did it_. Isn't justice a little too blind sometimes?"

"We got him," McCoy pointed out. He finished his drink and put his glass down. "Danielle did her job, we did ours. He was guilty, and he was convicted. The system works."

"Melnick got the confession of a guilty man thrown out of court, and you got a jury to convict because they liked you better," Regan said. "How is that the system working?"

"Look at it this way," McCoy said. "Danielle put her thumb on the blind lady's scale – and I lifted the blindfold a little." He spread his hands. "The people in the system are all part of it. We're all part of the checks and balances. Okay?"

She met his gaze, nodded. "Okay."

"Then can we get something to eat?" he asked plaintively. "Winning makes me hungry!"

Regan laughed, drained her glass and stood up. "In that case, we'd better get going," she said. "I'm all out of chocolate bars."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I have compressed the time-frame of a court trial a great deal. In real life it might be a year between arrest and sentencing. Law & Order deals with this in the series by making the dates on the title cards representative of the time lapse (thus occasionally leading to bloopers like Claire Kincaid being present at sentencing hearings after her death). The problem with that for me is I can't keep my characters personal lives and personalities straight if my stories all cover the same 12 month arc and all take place from the beginning of it to the end. So the court system is incredibly efficient in my little faniverse, OK?


End file.
